Evil at Heart (44 page)

           
It was 11

           
A.M. PST.Two o’clock in Virginia.

           
Henry punched in Anne’s number.

           
She picked up right away.

           
“Henry,” she said. “Did they catch her?”

           
“No,” Henry said. “No.”

           
He could hear the bustle of food preparation and teenaged boys

           
in the background. “Well,” she said, “you’re not calling to ask for fashion tips.”

           
“What do you remember about Jeremy Reynolds?” Henry asked.

           
“Hold on,” Anne said. Henry heard a door close and it got quiet. “Want to let me in on what’s going on?” she said.

           
“Archie checked himself out of the hospital,” Henry said.

           
“He can do that, Henry,” Anne said. “He was there voluntarily.”

           
A woman came out of the taco place with a burrito, looked around at the outdoor seating options, and took the spot farthest from Henry. “There’s this group of, I don’t know . . .” He rested his forehead on his hand. It was hot and he wasn’t wearing a jacket and he could feel sweat forming under his shoulder holster. “It’s sort of a Gretchen Lowell fan club.” Fuck, the world was getting weird. “They got ahold of this poor fuck who’d been fantasizing about getting his spleen removed.”

           
“Body integrity identity disorder,” Anne said with a whistle. “I’ve never heard of an organ focus before.”

           
Henry waved his hand. “Whatever. They found each other over the Internet. They took out his spleen for him. Only he died. Because, you know, they’re not fucking doctors.” The woman with the burrito was pretending to read an issue of the Portland Mercury, but she kept stealing looks at him. “Susan Ward found the body, courtesy of an anonymous tip. Archie found out who the kid was, courtesy of an anonymous tip.”

           
“That’s an interesting confluence of anonymous tips,” Anne said softly.

           
“I was going to say that,” Henry said, “but not so fancy.”

           
“Go on,” Anne said.

           
“Turns out the dead kid was a friend of Jeremy Reynolds’s.”

           
“The brother of Isabel Reynolds.”

           
Henry nodded even though Anne couldn’t see him. “Apparently he’s part of the fan club. Yesterday Archie checks himself out of the hospital, goes out to see Papa Jack and tells him to find Jeremy, and also gets a gun. And then last night he and Susan Ward go to a club meeting, or whatever the fuck.”

           
“They were expecting them,” Anne said.

           
“Of course they were expecting them.” Henry slammed his hand on the table. “They’d anonymous-tipped them right there. Susan got herself pierced in the face.”

           
“Pierced in the face?” Anne said.

           
“Like with a piercing needle,” Henry said. The woman with the burrito had put down the Mercury and now sat staring at him openly. “The group’s leader, who is wearing—get this—a nylon footy over his head, wants Archie to cut him. At least two of these assholes have carved up their own torsos, Gretchen style. Archie agrees, if they let Susan go. Susan runs. She thinks she hears Archie cry out, but it could have been anyone. She calls me. But when we get there, everyone’s cleared out, Archie’s gone. Gun’s on the floor.”

           
“And you think Archie went off with them, of his own accord?”

           
“I don’t know,” Henry said. “I thought he was recovering. But it’s a Gretchen Lowell fan club. He’s like an honorary lifetime member. And if he wants to get Jeremy Reynolds out of this, he’d do whatever it takes. You know him.”

           
“He always seemed very protective of Jeremy,” Anne said.

           
“The kid saw his sister murdered. I would imagine he’s a little scarred.” The woman with the burrito picked it up and went inside. Henry shot at her with his finger when she went by. “So now we’ve got reason to believe these people are involved in the recent killings out here. That they’re copycat murders.”

           
Anne paused. “I’m going to tell you something completely unprofessional,” she said.

           
“I’m on the edge of my seat,” said Henry.

           
“Jeremy Reynolds is dangerous,” Anne said.

           
“No shit,” Henry said.

           
Anne sighed deeply. “He suffered a dissociative fugue. He survived a life-altering event. He was sure to be traumatized, which is why I never drew darker conclusions in any of my reports.”

           
Henry was no shrink, but he’d seen enough violence to know that it did a number on people. “He’d just seen his sister murdered,” he said.

           
“His affect was off,” Anne said. She hesitated. “And this is not my professional opinion. My opinion as a psychologist was in the reports: dissociative fugue. My opinion as a mother? Jeremy Reynolds is dangerous.”

           
“Susan said his memory’s come back,” Henry said. He told Anne what Susan had said about the chest carvings apparently matching the marks on Isabel’s torso.

           
“In a kid like Jeremy,” Anne said, “without the proper support, that could send him reeling. He’d look for alternative support structures. Like the Internet, the fan club. And he’d look for people he could talk to.”

           
Henry finished the thought. “Like Archie. The one person who understands.” Archie had left the hospital and gone into that basement looking for Jeremy. Someone had to know the connection he and Jeremy had shared. Someone had to figure that Archie, knowing what Jeremy had gone through, would do almost anything to save him.

           
“Susan thinks Jeremy was the man in the mask,” Henry said.

           
“Well, duh,” Anne said.

           
C H A P T E R 51

           
After a while, Archie found that the pain from the hooks became a sort of physical white noise. He relaxed his body, letting his arms dangle, fingertips almost brushing the floor, and he took slow, deep breaths. The weightlessness was disorienting and he was getting dizzier and increasingly light-headed. His mind skittered. When he tried to focus on the floor, his vision blurred.

           
His blood pressure was dropping.

           
At this rate, he wouldn’t be conscious much longer.

           
“I can let you down now,” Jeremy said.

           
Archie lifted his head. The room spun. “I think that would be an excellent idea,” he said.

           
Jeremy pulled at a mechanism Archie couldn’t see and after a painful jerk, he was lowered blissfully to the concrete. Archie lay on his belly, his arms under his torso, his cheek on the floor. The concrete was cool. Jeremy lifted his head and held a sports bottle to his lips. “It’s sugar water,” he said. “To get your glucose up.”

           
Archie parted his lips and Jeremy pressed the nozzle into his mouth and squeezed the bottle. The sugar water was room temperature

           
and sweet, like flat cola, but Archie suckled at it feverishly, his mind clearing as the fluid found its way down his throat. When Jeremy pulled the bottle away, Archie managed to sit up, his bare knees pulled to his chest. “Take the hooks out,” he said.

           
Jeremy knelt behind him. “I have to do it fast,” Jeremy said. “The faster you take them out, the less it hurts.” Archie could feel him working, feel the pressure as Jeremy held a cloth to his skin to stop the bleeding, but he didn’t feel any pain. He knew each hook was out only because of the sound it made as Jeremy dropped it into an empty Nancy’s Yogurt container.

           
“I’m going to massage the air out of your skin,” Jeremy said. “To help prevent infection. It’s going to hurt a little.” Jeremy pushed around the puncture wounds, with a circular motion. It was more unsettling than painful, like Rice Krispies popping under his skin. The air made a burping sound as it exited his flesh, and warm blood spurted from the wounds, splattering and running down Archie’s back. Archie rested his forehead against his knees and hugged his shins.