Bone Cold (5 page)

Friday, January 12
Uptown

A
headache held Dr. Benjamin Walker's cranium in a vise. He struggled beyond the pain to focus as the patient sitting across from him described his ambivalent feelings about the recent death of his mother. Ben had been working with this man three months; in that time he'd only begun to scratch the surface of the damage done by the man's horrific childhood.

“It's not right, Dr. Walker. She was my mother. And she's gone. Gone.” The man wrung his hands. “Shouldn't I feel something at her passing?”

“What do you think you should be feeling, Rick?”

The man lifted his bloodshot gaze to Ben's. “Grief. Regret. Fury. I don't know, but something for God's sake!”

Ben jumped on the last. “Fury? That's a strong emotion, Rick. One of the strongest.”

His patient stared blankly at him. “Fury? I didn't say that.”

“You did.”

“I couldn't. I loved my mother.”

“Actually, it's quite understandable that you might be angry. Even furious.”

“Really?” The man looked relieved. “Because she's gone?”

“Could be that. Maybe in part.” Ben folded his hands in his lap, schooling his features to neutrality. “Could be other things as well.”

“What things? What are you suggesting?”

“Think about it, Rick. You tell me what things.”

Ben sat back, waiting, silent. Giving his patient time to consider the question, then to fill the quiet that screamed to be broken. Someday, he believed, Rick Richardson would fill that quiet. And the noise would be deafening. Frightening. Ben had glimpsed a simmering rage in this man, a rage directed at women. It had emerged in the recounting of a routine argument with his wife; his attitude toward his boss, who happened to be a woman; in word choice; body language; subtle shifts in facial expressions when talking about women.

Ben suspected the true source of Rick Richardson's pain and rage was his controlling and abusive mother. A fact his patient was as yet unwilling—and unable—to admit. Now that she had passed, with nothing resolved between them, those feelings of rage most probably would worsen. They could turn inward. Or outward.

Either way, Ben feared they were in for some rough sessions ahead.

“She was a good mother, Dr. Walker,” Rick said suddenly, tone defensive. “A very good mother.”

“Was she?”

Rick shot to his feet, fists clenched at his sides, vein popping in his forehead. “What the hell is that supposed
to mean! You didn't know her! You don't know anything about our relationship or the kind of person she was!”

“I know what you've told me,” Ben murmured. “And I'd really like to know more.”

Rick stared at him a moment, then jerked his gaze away. “I don't want to talk about her right now.”

Ben watched as his patient began to prowl the room. “Why not?” he asked.

Rick whirled to face Ben. “Because I don't. Isn't that good enough for you? Why do you have to pick at me like that? Pick, pick pick. Just like my wife. Just like my moth—fuck.”

“Did your mother pick at you?”

He flushed. “I said, I don't want to talk about her.”

“Fine. We have a few minutes left, you tell me what you do want to talk about.”

Predictably, his patient chose the less emotionally charged subject of his job. While he talked, he continued to prowl about the room. Ben followed the man's movements; as he did he caught a glimpse of himself in the antique, three-by-five-foot gilt-framed mirror that hung directly across the room from him. The mirror had been an outrageous indulgence, a recent gift to himself to celebrate taking on his twenty-fifth patient.

Twenty-fifth patient.
Eighteen months ago he had been with a thriving psychiatry group in Atlanta, a partnership offer on the table. He had chucked it all to follow his elderly mother to New Orleans.

Her move had been a shock. She had just picked up and gone, insisting afterward that it had been his idea. Ultimately, Ben had seen her behavior as a blessing—and a wake-up call.

His mother's bizarre behavior had forced him to slow down and take a long look at her. When he had, he'd
realized something was wrong with her, something more than absentmindedness. Test results had proved him right—she had been suffering with the early stages of Alzheimer's disease.

The realization had stunned him. It had made him feel as if he'd been an inattentive, ungrateful son—and a fool as well. He was a doctor, for God's sake! He should have seen what was happening to her before she'd gotten so far gone. For years she had confused people and events; she had forgotten appointments and special occasions. But then many people forgot things.

At least that's what he had told himself. Until her behavior had forced him to face the truth.

Six months after arriving in New Orleans, Ben had convinced her she would be happier—and safer—living in a semi-independent living facility.

“I fantasized about dying again.”

Ben sat up straighter, instantly one hundred percent focused on his patient, annoyed with himself for having let his mind wander. “Tell me about it, Rick.”

“There's nothing to tell.”

“If that was true, you wouldn't have mentioned it. Did you fantasize about ending your own life? Or did you simply picture the world without you?”

“I just…faded away. I was there, then gone.”

A trickle of relief moved through Ben. No clinician worth his salt took a patient's thoughts of death or dying lightly. However, as such thoughts went, fading away set off far fewer alarms. Also, Rick had experienced similar fantasies before, always during times of great emotional stress.

“And how did that make you feel?” Ben asked.

“Angry.” Rick stopped pacing. He looked at Ben, his handsome face twisted with some strong emotion,
though Ben wasn't sure whether pain or fury. “Nobody seemed to notice or care. They went right on with the party.”

The party. Life.
Ben understood. He leaned forward in his seat. “I think it's interesting that in many ways this fantasy mirrors your feelings about your mother's death. Your ambivalence and anger. Your isolation. Think about that this week. We'll talk about it during your next session.”

Ben stood, signaling that their time was up. He walked Rick to the office door, wished him a good week and said good-night.

He watched his patient exit the waiting room, then returned to his desk, smiling with anticipation. Rick had been his last patient of the day. After he reviewed the notes from their session and straightened up his desk, the weekend was his.

He planned to spend all of it working on his book, a nonfiction tome on the effects of early-childhood trauma—particularly physical, mental and sexual abuse—on personality.

The idea for the book had been born during his first year as a practicing clinician, from the hours he had volunteered at the free clinic in Atlanta. The idea had solidified the following year, when he'd joined the Peachtree Road Psychiatry group. The patient demographic couldn't have been more different than that of the free clinic's, yet he saw the same manifestations of childhood trauma on the personalities of individuals from both groups.

He had realized two things. The first was that child abuse crossed all social, economic and racial lines. The second was that the effects of that abuse could be seen in a predictable pattern of adult pathologies. He had begun
researching the work of scholars in the field and immersing himself in the case studies of other clinicians.

Only after that research had begun to stack up and take shape had Ben realized he wanted to write a book on the subject. He wasn't breaking any new ground, his certainly wouldn't be the first book detailing the adult pathologies of childhood trauma and it wouldn't be the last. It would, he hoped, be the first written for the masses, one that spoke to Jane and John Q. Reader. His ultimate goal: to educate and to heal.

Once begun, the book had become his obsession, one he devoted as much time to as he could.

On his way out of the office, Ben once more caught sight of himself in the rippled glass of the antique mirror. It was a flickering glance and he stopped, startled. For a fraction of a second, he had looked like someone else.

Like who, for God's sake? Ben gave his head a shake. The man in the moon? Rick Richardson?

Ben thought of his patient, of his dashing good looks. Benjamin Walker look like Rick Richardson? In his dreams. Ben studied his reflection. Medium height and build. Medium-brown hair, brown eyes. Glasses that made him look as bookish as he was.

He would never be a lady-killer. He would never make women swoon. Or drool. Or faint.

Which was okay. That wasn't what he was about.

Smart. Steady. A good son. Someday, when he found the right woman, a faithful husband and a devoted father.

He was comfortable in his own skin, with the man Ben Walker had become, the choices he had made, his life.

With a wry grin, he snapped off the office light and
stepped into the waiting room, locking his office door behind him.

His was a one-person outfit; he didn't even employ a receptionist. He didn't need one. He made his own appointments, an answering service picked up his calls when he was in session and a computer program helped him with his bookkeeping. As of yet, his contact with insurance companies had been minimal. He was totally self-sufficient. A far cry from the Atlanta group with its plush offices and staff of twenty.

Truth was, he didn't miss it. This was where he belonged.

He supposed as he became busier, he would require an employee. A part of him, a big part, would regret that day. His office was located in half of a Garden District double; the other half served as his residence. It was cozy. Intimate and homey. The inclusion of another would change that.

But change, he acknowledged, was an unavoidable, intrinsic part of life.

Ben crossed to the coffee table to straighten the magazines, only then did he notice the manila envelope propped against one of the sofa cushions. He picked it up. His name had been printed neatly in the upper left-hand corner of the otherwise unmarked envelope.

Curious, he opened it. Inside he found a hardcover suspense novel by Anna North, an author he didn't recognize. As he turned the book over in his hands, a note fluttered to the floor. Short and cryptic, it read:

 

Tomorrow. 3 p.m. E! Entertainment Network.

 

Ben drew his eyebrows together, intrigued. Who had left this for him? Why had they left it?

He flipped through the book, but found nothing to indicate an answer to either of those questions. It seemed logical to assume one of his patients had either brought the book for him and forgotten to mention it or had dropped it off while he was in session.

Ben thought back. He had seen six patients today. He ticked off each in his head and saw no reason any of them would have left the book.
If
one of them left it. Anyone could have come in while he was in session and left the package.

Still, the question was, Why?

A mystery, he thought, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. One to read. And one to solve.

He would begin tomorrow at three, by tuning in to E!

Saturday, January 13
The French Quarter

J
ust after 2:00 p.m., Anna arrived home from her half-day shift at The Perfect Rose. She shivered and glanced up at the gray sky, wishing the sunshine predicted by the Channel 6 meteorologist that morning would make its promised appearance. Winter had only just begun and she was already ready for it to end.

After her lunch with Jaye on Thursday, Anna had returned to work, unsettled by Jaye's revelation that somebody had been following her. She had even considered calling Jaye's foster mom or the police, then had rejected the thought. First off, Jaye would have been furious with her, and secondly the girl had agreed they would go to the police if she saw the man again. Although not completely comfortable with her decision, Anna had decided that for now she would let it drop.

Anna retrieved her keys from her purse. In addition to her concerns about Jaye's safety, she had been preoccupied with thoughts of Minnie and the discomfiting “He” of the girl's letter.

Deciding that Jaye had been right about Minnie needing a friend, Anna had responded to the child's letter. She had kept it light and chatty, working in a couple of subtle queries about Minnie's parents, about her relationship with them. Now she hoped they had been subtle enough. She worried that Minnie's folks would see right through them.

And come down on her like a ton of bricks.

Anna opened the gate to her apartment building's courtyard, pausing to wave at old Mr. Badeaux from across the street. A neighborhood character, Alphonse Badeaux spent most of his days on the front steps of his shotgun double with his ancient, one-eyed bulldog, Mr. Bingle.

Alphonse, a two-time widower, chatted with everyone who came, went or passed his front steps. Anna had learned that if she needed to know anything about anyone on this or the immediately surrounding blocks, Alphonse was her man.

“You got a package today,” he called to her, standing then moseying over. “Saw the man deliver it. Don't know who it's from, though. None of my business.”

She fought a smile at that. “Did they toss it over the gate?” If no one in the building was available to buzz a delivery in, packages were often thrown over the courtyard gate. That practice worked out well except when it rained unexpectedly. Considering how often that happened in New Orleans, Anna had received a number of soggy packages.

“Nope.” He scratched his head. “Somebody buzzed him in. Came and went in about four minutes. Don't know who, though. None of my business.”

“Thank you, Alphonse. I'll look for it.” She glanced
across the street to where the old bulldog lolled on the porch steps. “You and Mr. Bingle been feeling okay?”

“Pretty good.” He ran a hand across his face, skin leathery and lined from age and years exposed to the south Louisiana sun. “Don't like the cold, though. Goes down deep, into my bones.”

“I know what you mean,” she agreed. “It's so damp.”

He nodded and jerked a thumb toward his dog. “Doesn't seem to bother Mr. Bingle. Cold or hot, wet or dry, old Bingle doesn't seem to notice the difference.”

The dog lifted his head and looked at them with his one good eye. Anna smiled and touched her neighbor's arm. “Come up for a hot chocolate one day. If I do say so myself, I make a pretty mean cup of the stuff.”

“That's mighty sweet of you, Miss Anna. I'd like that. You watch out for that package, now.”

She told him she would, then let herself in through the gate, locking it behind her.

Like many of the old buildings in the French Quarter, or Vieux Carré, hers had been built around a central courtyard. In days gone by, the courtyards, with their brick walls and lush vegetation, had offered New Or leanians a respite from the stifling heat of summer; today, they served as an oasis from the city that lay beyond their vine-covered walls.

Anna made her way up the narrow staircase to the second floor. As her neighbor had warned, a padded mailing envelope sat propped against her door. She retrieved it, unlocked her apartment and stepped inside. After dropping her purse on the entryway table, she took a closer look at the package. It was addressed to her but unmarked in any other way. No return address, postmark or shipper's label.

Odd, Anna thought. She tore open the envelope and drew out a videotape marked Interview, Savannah Grail.

Her mother.
Anna smiled.
Of course.
Last time they'd spoken, her mother had mentioned that her agent had called about a couple of opportunities. This must have been one of those.

Anna turned on the TV, popped in the tape, then wandered to the kitchen for a glass of water and a handful of crackers. Her mother missed working. She missed the limelight, the adulation of fans. She missed being a
star.

Although, she hadn't been one for a long time now. For a while after the kidnapping, her mother's already waning career had been revived. It hadn't lasted. She had already been forty-five at the time, the age when Hollywood's sex symbols began metamorphosing into movie moms. Those roles went to Oscar-caliber actresses. Something her mother had never been, not even at the zenith of her acting career.

The sad fact was, her mother had now reached an age where, save for an occasional television commercial or local theater production, there simply wasn't any work to be had.

It had been hard for her mother to accept, though she had survived. When her marriage to Anna's father had ended, she'd left southern California and moved back to her hometown, Charleston, South Carolina.

There, she was still a star, still
the
Savannah North—the part she had been born to play.

Smiling with anticipation, Anna settled on the floor in front of the TV and pressed the play button. A moment later the screen was filled with her mother, gorgeous in a peacock-blue silk suit and diamonds.

Anna smiled and munched on her goldfish-shaped crackers, watching as her mother came to life before the camera, preening for the interviewer, every bit the celebrity. She was still so beautiful, Anna thought. Still the flame-haired, green-eyed bombshell that the American public—particularly the male public—had loved to ogle.

The interviewer went to work. He remained unseen. From growing up around cameras and taping, Anna knew it would be easy to piece in the interviewer later. Many taped interviews were done exactly that way.

The man questioned her mother about her work: about being a screen goddess: about the movies and television series she had starred in. They talked about the Hollywood of the fifties, about the stars of the day, Savannah's romantic conquests.

Then the interview changed directions. The videographer began to question Savannah about her personal life: her divorce, her move back to Charleston and her only child, little Harlow Grail.

Anna straightened at the mention of her own name, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach. The interviewer pressed on despite the wrinkle of discomfort that marred her mother's forehead. He discussed the “tragic” kidnapping, its aftermath on Savannah's marriage, their family, on Harlow's psyche.

Anna studied her mother's reactions to the questions, acknowledging the interviewer's skill. He alternated between adulatory and accusing, admiring and suspicious, seeming to know not only which of her mother's buttons to push, but when to push them. He went so far as to comment on the way her career had profited by the tragedy.

The last infuriated Anna. She saw through the man's
manipulation to what he was attempting to do. Obviously her mother did not. She folded like a house of cards, becoming apologetic and defensive.

He used her discomfort to his advantage, moving in for the kill. “It's just tragic,” he murmured, “that Harlow never overcame her kidnapping. She had such strength and courage, it must hurt you terribly to have watched her disappear into obscurity. I can only imagine how angry and…helpless you must feel.”

“Harlow has certainly
not
disappeared,” she said proudly, jumping to her daughter's defense. “She's a novelist, living in New Orleans. And quite a successful novelist, I might add. Her first two thrillers received rave reviews.”

Anna's heart began to thunder; she felt ill. In one fell swoop her mother had revealed not only her occupation but her city of residence as well.

“A mystery novelist?” the interviewer murmured. “I'm surprised I hadn't heard this before. It seems the name Harlow Grail alone would have made her a bestseller.”

“She's taken a pseudonym. After what she lived through, she prefers to avoid the spotlight. I'm sure you understand.”

The interviewer made a sound of sympathy. To Anna's ears it sounded false. “Oh, I do. Completely. But surely you can tell us a little more? After all, the story of Harlow's nightmare ordeal and daring escape held all of America captivated for seventy-two hours. We feared for her, then cheered for her. She was, and still is, one of our heroes. Could you at least share a title with us?”

“I wish I could, but—”

“What about her publisher? Is it Doubleday? Cheshire
House?” He saw by her expression that the last had been correct. “Cheshire House publishes some big names in suspense. Would Harlow be one of those?”

Anna hit the pause button, struggling to catch her breath. She felt as if she had been struck in the chest by a baseball, one speeding off a professional's bat.

Blood pounding in her ears, she stared at the television, at the frozen image of her mother. Her mother had revealed everything about Anna but her new name and phone number: her city of residence, occupation and the kind of books she wrote. She supposed she should be grateful her mother hadn't mentioned The Perfect Rose or announced her street address.

Calm down. Don't panic. Assess the damage.

Anna breathed through her nose, ticking off the facts in her head. New Orleans was a big city, one with a large community of writers. Nothing in her publisher's materials revealed the city in which she lived, including her author bio. Cheshire House published quite a number of mysteries and suspense novels; her mother hadn't mentioned the exact month her book was scheduled to appear.

Or had she?
Anna glanced down at the remote control, still clutched in her hand. Without giving herself time to reconsider and chicken out, she hit the play button.

The video advanced. Her mother looked distressed, near tears. The interviewer wrapped the segment; a moment later the television screen went to black.

Black save for the crudely executed white words that flashed onto the screen: