Blind Rage (35 page)

“She died back in April.”

“We had four of them pass away in April,” Inez said, pushing some peas around the plate. “Bad month.”

“Ruth was her name.”

Inez took a sip of milk and nodded. “Brain damage. Had to be fed through a tube in her tummy.”

“She couldn’t eat?”

“Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sit up. Couldn’t toilet herself. She could see, but she couldn’t talk. Couldn’t move nothin’ but her pointer finger, and that was on a good day. Skinny as a toothpick, but she hung on for years and years. She was my roommate for a bit. I been here so damn long, I’ve had everyone in the place as a roommate at one time or another.”

“Did she have visitors?” Bernadette asked.

“Mark.” The elderly woman took a sip of water. “No, wait. That isn’t right. Matthew. Matthew and Luke. That’s it. One of them was a doctor. The other one, I don’t know what he did for a living. He seemed to have plenty of time on his hands. They were real good to Ruthie, especially the older one. He read to her. Massaged her feet. Brought her enough flowers every week to fill a funeral parlor.”

“That’s nice,” Bernadette said stiffly.

“They’d chat it up with the other residents, too. Got real chummy with the aides and kept in touch with them after she passed. I think they even helped a couple of them find better jobs.”

Bernadette didn’t want to hear any more about the brothers’ good deeds. “How did Ruth become brain damaged in the first place?”

“
That
was a touchy subject with the VonHader clan. The official explanation was ‘household accident.’”

“What kind of household accident causes brain damage?”

“Exactly.”

“What do you think happened?”

The elderly woman shrugged her narrow shoulders and resumed sawing into her meat. “Who knows? Families got secrets.”

“Did Ruth ever communicate with you in some way? Try to tell you what happened to her?”

“Like I said, poor thing couldn’t talk.”

“But did she…I don’t know—signal somehow? Did she indicate she was afraid of Matthew and Luke?”

“No, no. She loved those boys. I could tell. She looked forward to their visits. Her eyes would light up like sparklers.” Inez paused with a sliver of meat halfway to her mouth. “There was this one time, though.”

“What?”

“The older one, the doctor, this one time he treated the both of us to hairdos in the salon here. Three chairs. Looks like a real salon, only it’s open one day a week.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “So we’re in there, me and Ruthie, and we’re getting our hair washed in one of those sinks. You know, the ones with the curve in them so you can rest your neck more comfortable. They’re spraying our heads with warm water and something must have gone haywire with the water temp or something. Maybe she just didn’t want someone touching her hair.”

“Ruthie freaked out?”

“I looked over at her, and that one finger was twitching like crazy.”

Bernadette got up from the mattress. A horrific conclusion was forming in her head: someone had put Auntie Ruth in the nursing home via a near drowning. If it wasn’t the brothers, it had to be another relative.

Inez scooped up a spoonful of pudding and held it out to her visitor. “Tapioca. They do a real nice job with it. You should give it a try.”

“No, thanks,” mumbled Bernadette, sitting back down.

“Skinny thing. You should eat more dessert.” Inez shoveled the pudding into her mouth.

“What about other visitors? Did Ruthie have any other regulars?”

“Not many. And when they did, well…I don’t think Ruthie liked her daddy all that much. Her eyes got all buggy when he walked through the door.”

Bernadette blinked. “Did you say her
daddy
came by? How old was her father?”

“He’s dead now. Died shortly after his wife. He had a stroke. Took a bad fall. Lucky bastard. Not like Ruthie.” The old woman scraped one last spoonful of pudding from the bottom of her dish. “Pneumonia got her. I suppose there are worse ways to check out.”

“They call it the old people’s friend,” said Bernadette.

“Not that she was that old.”

Bernadette frowned. “How old was she?”

“Forty or so by the time she died.” Inez licked the spoon clean. “But she was a girl when she got here. I still think of her as a girl.”

“What?” Bernadette got up off the bed.

“Ruthie was but a teenager when she came here.” Inez dropped her spoon on the tray and stared at her visitor’s ashen face. “Are you all right,
chère
? You look like you just seen a ghost.”

RUTH. THAT’S
whose portrait was missing in the First Communion gallery. Ruth was the pretty blond girl in Bernadette’s dream.

While she drove, Bernadette came up with a sickening theory: Ruth VonHader became brain damaged when her father tried to drown her. Her brothers knew about it, or even watched helplessly while it happened. Upon their sister’s death, one of them started repeating the heinous act again and again—with coeds filling in for Ruth.

Whither thou goest, I will go…

SHE WAS WALKING
into the cellar when her desk phone rang. It was Wakefielder, and what he had to tell her made her sink into her chair.

“Agent Saint Clare, I wanted you to know before I came under suspicion. One of my students is missing.”

Was this for real, or was it some sort of ploy to make himself look good? She grabbed a pen. “Since when?”

“Nathaniel advised against calling you, but if she’s in trouble…”

“What’s her name, and how long has she been missing?”

“I mean…I don’t know what happened to Zoe. You have to believe me. She was fine when I dropped her off at—”

“Professor. The girl’s name. Please.”

“Regina Ordstruman. She’s been gone since, well, at least since class on Friday. We don’t have class on Thursday.”

“Did you try her at home?”

He didn’t answer.

“Professor, I don’t care about your extracurriculars.”

“I tried her at home and got no response.”

“Her parents?”

“They’re not close. Haven’t been for some time.” He sounded genuinely concerned.

“Is it possible she’s just taking a long weekend?”

“We had a big test today, and she wouldn’t have missed it unless…” His voice trailed off.

“Professor, was she being treated for psychological problems? Did she have a shrink?”

“If by that you mean a psychiatrist, no. I tried to get her to go in, but she refused. I did give her some tools, in case she ever needed them in an emergency. I give all my students tools. My courses tend to draw a fair number of…”

“Train wrecks,” Bernadette finished.

He paused. “That’s putting it crudely, but yes.”

“What sorts of tools are we talking about? Do you recommend specific doctors or clinics?”

“Nothing like that. I give them phone numbers. There’s a suicide hotline. I’ve even got stickers I distribute.”

He has suicidal girls signing up for his classes, and he gives them stickers. She decided to cut to the chase. “Do you know Dr. Luke VonHader?”

“That name sounds familiar.”

“He was Zoe’s psychiatrist. He was also Kyra Klein’s doctor.”

“What are you saying? Do you think one of their health care providers is involved?”

“Professor, three girls connected to you have died. Two of them went to the same doctor. Help me. There is some link between you, this doctor, and their deaths.”

She heard a voice in the background. It was the pit bull butting in on the call. “Agent Saint Clare, we’re getting into dangerous territory here,” said Wakefielder. “I’m going to have to hang up. If you need anything else, please call Nathaniel Selwyn.”

“Wait. I need more on Regina. A description. Her address. The names of her—”

“I’ve given you all I can,” he said, and hung up.

“Dammit!” She snapped her pencil. If Regina Ordstruman was real and had been missing since Thursday, she could be the woman Bernadette had witnessed having intercourse with the killer.

She looked at the office clock. The first hours of a missing persons case were vital, and this girl had been gone for days. Bernadette needed a shortcut, and her sight would have to provide it. She only hoped it would be a short cut to a live girl and not another corpse.

She called Garcia and told him to meet her at her loft.

Chapter 33

HELL HAD SWITCHED COLORS; NOW IT WAS WHITE.

He came and went. He periodically removed the gag, let her drink tepid water or juice, and sealed her mouth back up. She didn’t know how long he’d kept her in the blue bedroom, tied to the posts. Days?

Then he shot her up with something that knocked her out again. When she came to, she found herself flat on her face on his bathroom floor. The odors that had nauseated her during the assaults also permeated the snowy tile beneath her. Wanting to get her face away from the stink of his soap and cologne, she rolled onto her side and curled her knees up to her chest.

While she was unconscious, he’d changed her binds and gag. Now a strip of duct tape covered her mouth like a giant bandage. More of the stuff twined her wrists together so that her hands looked like those of a silver mummy, palms locked together in permanent prayer. The bastard knew what he was doing; she couldn’t use her fingernails as tools. She didn’t look down, but it felt as if her legs were just as thoroughly bound. Why had he bothered to untie the ropes and take her off the bed, only to rebind her with tape and dump her in the john? Maybe he got a rise out of finding new ways to subdue her, the sick bastard. Perhaps it was because she’d been emptying her bladder on the bed, forcing him to change the sheets. Too bad she had nothing in her bowels. Her stomach rumbled and she ignored it. Being hungry was at the bottom of her tally of woes.

Number one on the list was the large white object sitting on the floor beside her. The tub. He’d been talking about it, what he’d do to her once he dropped her in it. The thing towered over her like a menacing iceberg. Was it filled with water? She tried not to think about it.

The bathroom door was closed. She heard no sounds coming from the other side, not even the soothing radio voice, her invisible companion in this blue and white hell. Finding her position uncomfortable, she started to lie on her back, but felt something preventing her. A loose corner of the duct tape from her mouth was stuck to the tiles. Maybe she could keep working it and peel off the tape. She pressed the side of her face into the floor so the tape really caught and then rolled her head down onto the tiles. She could feel the tape peeling away. Throwing her whole body into it, she rolled until she was facedown on the floor again, and kept rolling.

She found herself on her back again, this time free of the gag. Closing her eyes, she caught her breath. The effort had left her nude body covered in perspiration but rejuvenated. She’d removed the tape over her mouth. With time, she could free her hands and legs. How long was he going to be away? She visualized him dead in a car crash, his body slumped against the steering wheel, broken and bleeding. The image energized her further.