Concealed in Death (31 page)

“I just need to tell Matron.”

“You’ve got two minutes. Peabody,” she called as she stepped back toward the room. “With me. Quilla, for Christ’s sake, stay out of here.”

“What’s going on?”

“Lots of official stuff. Look,” she said, relenting a little, “you helped, so I’ll fill you in later. Peabody, we’re moving.”

•   •   •

S
he’d expected an air shuttle, which was bad enough. But found herself, churning stomach and all, loading onto a jet-copter with Roarke at the helm.

“In the back,” she ordered Philadelphia, and shoved ear protectors at her. “Put these on, keep them on.”

“This is the ult,” Peabody declared, and harnessed herself in. “I’ve never been to the Adirondacks. I should’ve worn snow boots. I bet there’s snow.”

“We’ll survive. Recap.” She brought Roarke up to speed, filled in the Peter Gibbons connection for both him and Peabody. It helped keep her mind off the fact she was flying, at great speed, in a toy with blades. It didn’t help when they flew, at great speed, over snow-covered mountains.

That looked entirely too big, entirely too close.

“Just some crosswinds,” Roarke told her when the copter shuddered.

“He couldn’t just stay in the city, there are lots of places in the city, but oh no, he’s got to do this in some mountain cabin where there’s nothing but rocks and trees. Fucking, fucking big rocks and trees.”

“It’s gorgeous!” Peabody, her nose plastered to the window, bounced in her seat. “There’s a lake! It’s all frozen.”

“When we crash into it, we’ll bounce instead of drown.”

Roarke laughed, began to circle.

She gripped the sides of her seat like lifelines. “What are you doing!”

“Descending, darling. There’s the institute.”

Teeth gritted, she forced herself to look down. It wasn’t a cabin in the woods, but a large, sprawling complex in the valley of the really big, snowy mountains. From her reluctant bird’s-eye view, it resembled a very large mansion, more, she corrected, an important school.

Then because it made her dizzy, she stopped looking below, just held on until she felt the copter touch smoothly down.

She climbed down to the pad immediately, waiting for her legs to get solid again. She wasn’t quite there when several people ran toward the pad from the main building. Even slightly queasy, she recognized security when it charged toward her.

“This is a private institution. I need to ask you to—”

Eve just held up her badge. “Peter Gibbons.”

“I’ll need your business with Dr. Gibbons.”

“No, you don’t. He does. He sees me now, or I’ll have this place surrounded by cops, and shut down. Gibbons,” she repeated.

“We’ll take this inside.”

“Nobody leaves the premises.” She fell in line with him. Peabody had been right about the snow, but the pathways were pristine, cutting neat stone paths through the blankets of white. “How long has Montclair Jones been here?”

“I can’t discuss patients with you.”

Didn’t have to, Eve thought. He’d just confirmed her suspicions.

Inside, the building was church-quiet. Not hospital-like so much as cushy rehab center for the really rich. Plants thriving, floors sparkling, even a gas fire simmering.

“Wait here,” security told her. His two companions stood on guard as he walked up a short sweep of stairs.

“Will you let me see Monty?” Philadelphia asked.

“We’ll get to that.”

“You’re going to arrest him. Both my brothers. You’re going to put them both in prison.”

Eve said nothing, but watched a man hurry down the stairs. Average height, average looks until you took a second study. Sharp eyes of winter blue, a strong jaw added something.

“I’m Dr. Gibbons,” he began. Those winter blue eyes widened, then went warm as summer. “Philly.” He moved right past Eve, hands extended, gripped both of Philadelphia’s. “You look the same.”

“No. Of course I don’t.”

“To me you do. Nash contacted you. I’m so glad. I’m terribly sorry, but he couldn’t keep this from you. I couldn’t keep it from you.”

“You’ve been keeping it from everyone for fifteen years.”

He turned, eyes cooling again when they met Eve’s. “No, not what you’re thinking. We should go up to the conference room. My office is a bit small to fit everyone.”

“Where is Montclair Jones?”

“His room’s on the third floor, east wing.” At Philadelphia’s gasp, he looked at her again. “I’m so sorry. Nash is with him. If I could explain things to you—it’s Lieutenant Dallas, correct?”

“That’s right. Explaining’s a good start. Peabody, I want you on the door of Jones’s room.”

“Neither of them would leave, but I understand. Security will escort you,” he told Peabody.

As Peabody peeled off with security, Eve went with Gibbons up the stairs.

“Just this way. Nash came to my home yesterday evening. He was in a state of deep anxiety, even panic.”

“I bet.”

Gibbons opened a door, gestured.

It struck her more like a lounge than a conference room, though there was the requisite long table. Gibbons led Philadelphia to a sofa. “Can I get you anything? Your hands are cold. Some tea?”

“No, nothing.”

“You’re still wearing it,” he said quietly.

“No.” She looked down at the ring, then up at him. “I . . . oh, Peter.”

“This is difficult for you. For us all.” He sat beside her, took her hand in his, then met Eve’s eyes again.

“I should start fifteen years ago. We were fairly new at that time. I’d come on board the year before, at the inception. I’d kept in touch with Nash over the years.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“We’d both married, both divorced. You had your life, and I was making mine. Nash contacted me all those years ago, shaken, desperate. He told me Monty was in trouble, that he’d tried to hurt one of the girls in your care, and didn’t seem to understand the scope of his actions. The girl was safe, but he couldn’t allow Monty to be around the children, couldn’t allow him to go on without serious psychiatric help. Of course I agreed to take him as a patient, though we disagreed when he insisted you weren’t to know, Philly.”

“At the very least, Montclair Jones had committed assault,” Eve pointed out.

“Should the police have been notified? Perhaps. But a friend asked me to help his brother. I did. When Monty came here he was like a child. He remembered me, and that helped. He was happy to see me, and assumed you’d be coming any day, Philly, as I was here.”

“He always liked you, so much,” Philadelphia said.

“And that helped,” Peter replied. “He’d been afraid he was being sent away, to Africa of all places. His mental and emotional states were very fragile.”

“Like my mother,” Philadelphia added.

“He’s not suicidal,” Gibbons assured her. “Has never been, though we took precautions initially. I took it slowly with him at first. He was passive, obedient. He believed if he behaved, he could go home again, or you and Nash would come here. When we talked of what happened, he said the girl was bad, and he wanted to cleanse her in the waters of home, and once clean she could stay home. They would be home.”

“He would have drowned her,” Eve said.

“In his mind, he was helping her. Washing her clean of sin, giving her life—not taking it. His mother died in sin. That’s what your father believed, Philly.”

“I know. I don’t. I can’t. But our father does.”

“And impressed that on Monty, and Monty believed he might end the same way and be cast out from home.”

“Oh God. We tried so hard to make him feel safe.”

“His illness prevented that. I’ve told Nash how I feel about the treatment both he and your mother received. We’ll talk about that later. But with Monty, whenever I tried to go deeper into the root of that illness, he’d become agitated, often to the point we’d need to sedate him. Instead of progressing, he regressed. Nothing I’ve done, tried to do, nothing has reached him.”

“He killed twelve girls,” Eve interrupted. “He never mentioned it?”

Frustration ran over Gibbons’s face as he shook his head. “He talked of cleansing rites, of home, and never having to leave it. He no longer talks of going home as he believes this is his home. Through the sessions it became clear that if he were allowed to leave, he would attempt this cleansing again. He sees this as his mission. He sees himself as finally having a purpose, as he sees you and Nash have. To save the girls, to cleanse them, and bring them home.”

“Twelve of them,” Eve said.

“I suspected there might have been another attempt, but I could never reach him, never bring out what he’d done. I wasn’t able to get him to speak about why he had this mission, and the sexual elements of it. I can only tell you now that neither Nash nor I knew, rather than Nash finding him with the first before he could finish, he’d found Monty with the last.

“I could spend hours discussing his psyche with you, explaining my opinion on the whys, the hows, and how he’s concealed and suppressed what he’s done. But I can tell you he believes he did what was right and necessary, that his brother didn’t understand, didn’t trust him, didn’t believe in him so he was unable to do his work. It’s only been in the last few years that he’s been able to rebond with Nash to some extent.”

“His psyche is something for you and other shrinks to argue over. He killed twelve girls, attempted to kill another. Instead of being brought to justice, he’s lived here, in comfort, without consequences.”

“I wouldn’t agree about the consequences. We didn’t know about the murders. When he understood Monty was responsible, Nash came here, and told me everything.”

“You still didn’t contact the police.”

“We were about to when you arrived. Nash wanted to spend a little time with his brother before he, with me accompanying them, brought Monty back to New York and turned him over to you.”

Gibbons took Philadelphia’s hand again. “Nash was shattered when he came to me last night, Philly. Because he knew he’d have to give his brother to the police. The brother you both love, the brother he feels responsible for. And you’d have to know what Monty’s done.”

“I need to see them both.”

“I know. Monty’s nervous about going on a trip, about going back to New York. I’ve given him something for the anxiety. He won’t go to prison, Lieutenant. No doctor, no court will judge him legally sane. He’ll never be free, and he’ll never know what it is to have a life, to fall in love, have a family, a job, a real home. It’s not true justice, perhaps, but it’s consequences.”

“I need to see him.” Eve rose. “I need to speak to him.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Can’t I—”

“No, not now,” Eve said before Philadelphia could finish.

“It’s best to wait,” Gibbons assured her. “He’s already having difficultly adjusting to the idea of leaving here. But when the police are ready to take him, it will help if you’re there with him.”

“We’ll have that tea now, shall we?” Roarke suggested with a glance at Gibbons.

“Yes, good idea. I’ll arrange it. Lieutenant, I’ll take you to him.”

She waited until they were out of the room, going up another set of stairs. “In all these years, you never got him to admit to the murders.”

“It never occurred to me there had been murders. Lieutenant, he’s nonviolent, and as I said, passive. He spoke of girls, plural, but we assumed—and actually assumed correctly—that he saw them as a whole. The bad girls, the lost girls. He would save them. He’s delusional, and his upbringing—well, as I said, it would take hours to explain. You’re going to find he doesn’t see them as dead, but saved. He doesn’t understand he killed them. His mind is childlike. There is anger, but it’s diffused now. He has duties here, a routine, those who tend to him. He isn’t asked to do what he feels unable to do.”

He stopped in front of the door where Peabody stood.

“Will you permit me to remain, and Nash? He’d be less anxious.”

“We’ll try it that way. If you interfere, you’re out.”

With a nod, Gibbons opened the door.

Nash Jones rose immediately, all but launching out of the chair where he sat watching his brother slowly fold clothes into a small suitcase.

“Lieutenant, I—”

Gibbons shook his head. “Monty, you have some company.”

“I’m going on a trip.”

He looked like a child in a man’s body. His face, soft, going doughy, sat pale under a messy crop of sandy hair. His eyes had a dull, disengaged look to them.

“I’m packing. I can do it myself.”

“I need to ask you some questions.”

“Dr. Gibbons asks the questions.”

“So do I.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m the police.”

“Uh-oh, somebody’s in trouble!” He grinned at his brother as if they shared a joke.

“I’m going to read you your rights. Do you understand about rights?”

“It’s all right if I have dessert first sometimes, as long as I eat the rest.”

Oh boy,
Eve thought, but read off the Revised Miranda. “Do you understand any of that?”

“I don’t have to talk to you unless I want to.”

“That’s right. And you can have a lawyer here.”

“I have Monty and Dr. Gibbons. They’re smart.” Carefully, he folded a navy blue sweater into the suitcase. “I can be smart if I think about it.”

“Okay. I want to talk to you about when you lived in New York. About The Sanctuary.”

“I can’t go there anymore. It’s not home anymore. This is home.”

“But when it was home, you knew Shelby. You remember Shelby.”

“She’s bad. She said she was my friend, but she was mean to me. She’s bad,” Monty said under his breath. “I want to pack for my trip.”

“You can talk to Lieutenant Dallas while you pack,” Gibbons said gently.

“Dallas is a city in Texas. Everybody knows that. I’m a city, too.”

“How was Shelby mean to you?”

“How come I have to tell you? Nash made me tell him. He said I
had
to tell him because he’s my brother. You’re not my brother.”

“You should tell her what you told me.” His voice thick with tears, Nash laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“You got mad. I don’t like it when you get mad.”

“I got mad in New York, a long time ago. I was upset, and I shouldn’t have talked to you that way. But I didn’t get mad today, when you talked to me, when you told me about Shelby, and—and the others.”