Authors: Eileen Dreyer
Head Games (16 page)
“With pleasure.”
“I want a reportâ”
“On your desk,” Molly told her. “Everything up to and including the call to the meeting this morning. Okay?”
She didn't see Winnie smile. “About time.”
“You have a report written up already?” Rhett demanded.
Grabbing the railing and heading down the wide steps, Molly shrugged. “Not much to tell. Six notes, one bone, two alleged eyeballs, no suspects. On my way to pick brain with cute homicide officer. End of story.”
As if it were.
“Cute?” Rhett echoed, just like the puppy he was.
Molly laughed.
They'd made it to the bottom of the stairs when the receptionist waylaid them.
“Oh, Molly, you had a call while you were upstairs. Mr. Patterson. He said as soon as you were out beep him, he'd pick you up at your house.”
Molly stumbled to a halt, which made Rhett skid sideways, leaving black marks on the marble floor.
“My house?” she demanded. “What for?”
The receptionist's expression said that she figured she could well guess. “Well, I don't know. He just said it's important, and he knew you wouldn't be able to turn him down. He said he was sure you'd rather see him than Donna Kirkland?”
Molly froze in place. “Donna Kirkland?” she demanded.
“You're sure he said Donna Kirkland?” Rhett asked right behind her.
The receptionist scowled. “Like that's a name I'd mess up.”
“He wouldn't have called her, would he?” Rhett asked, his voice all but hushed.
Amazing how fast her temper flared out of control. Molly yanked her keys from her purse and headed for the door. “Maybe it's a good thing you're coming over right now after all, Rhett. That way you don't have to wait to be called for the homicide.”
Fortunately for Frank, he wasn't at Molly's house when she got there. Come to think of it, neither was Patrick. Not that he'd locked up or set the alarm when he'd left. Just like the teenager he was, he'd evidently simply wandered off. If Molly hadn't on occasion committed the same crime, she probably would have been more outraged. As it was, she double-checked the valuables to make sure Patrick wasn't out getting ready cash and led Rhett to the kitchen.
“What would you like to drink?” she asked as she dumped her magenta down jacket over a kitchen chair and headed for the kettle.
“Oh, uh, nothing,” Rhett assured her, adding his overcoat to the pile and setting his homicide hat on the table like a sacred offering. He was looking around, just as he always didâjust as everybody did who'd ever been inside or heard about the house. “Do you really think Patterson is the one who tipped off Donna Kirkland?”
Molly set the water to boil and took a peek out the back door to find Magnum's big, ugly face pressed to the glass. She knew it was dumb, but she checked to make sure he didn't have glitter on his lips.
“I wouldn't put anything past Frank,” she admitted. “As fond as he is of yanking my chain, though, I wouldn't jump to any conclusions till he drops the other shoe.”
“Aren't you supposed to beep him or something?”
“Nah. He didn't really expect me to beep him back. He'll show up on his own.”
Rhett couldn't seem to come up with a suitable comment. Molly, already
feeling as hounded as a prison escapee, just went about pulling out her tea supplies with ever-shaking hands.
feeling as hounded as a prison escapee, just went about pulling out her tea supplies with ever-shaking hands.
“Where do you want to start?” Rhett asked behind her.
“With another person.”
“I can't, Molly. You know that.” He paused, shuffled his feet. Went on in a rush. “Um, about your military history ⦔
Molly looked up and saw something perilously close to awe in Rhett's eyes. It was a look she'd seen more than once in young men who discovered her history, the inevitable reaction from a young male untested in war. That she should see it in Rhett, who had survived over six years in the much more unpredictable street wars of urban America, made her angry.
What did he want? Validation? Absolution? Whatever it was, Molly didn't have any today. Hell, she didn't even have absolution for herself. All she had was the growing dread of what would be left of her when they finished laying her out like a science experiment.
Not even waiting for the kettle to whistle, Molly poured the hot water into mugs. “I sincerely doubt that a Nam vet would just be showing up now as a serial killer,” she said, as if that was what Rhett was after. “They're too old. And way too tired.”
And most of them, she thought, had far different demons to deal with.
“Even your friend Frank?” Rhett asked quietly.
Molly laughed so hard Magnum barked. “Frank would never go to that much trouble,” she assured him. “Besides, Frank's preferred methods of torture are far more subtle and traumatic than mere dismemberment.”
Rhett shrugged as if none of it mattered. “Well, I will need to find out all about him.”
“Ask him when he shows up,” she said, ladling sugar into her mug. “He'd be delighted to be grilled. If he survives my polite questions about Donna Kirkland, anyway.”
Molly handed off the mug of tea Rhett hadn't asked for, which he accepted without a qualm.
“Then we'll talk about other things till he comes,” he said.
Molly nodded. “Fine. Follow me.”
Molly really didn't have to think about where to take this round of
To Tell the Truth
. She headed straight for the basement, where the grow
lights hummed and the low ceiling forced Rhett into an uncomfortable stoop.
To Tell the Truth
. She headed straight for the basement, where the grow
lights hummed and the low ceiling forced Rhett into an uncomfortable stoop.
“You growing marijuana down here?” he asked, only half kidding.
“Why is it that everyone figures if you have grow lights you're using them for illicit activity?” Molly demanded.
Rhett shrugged and plopped down on a high stool. “Because usually that's what they're for.”
Molly picked up her mister and went after her seedlings. “I start my annuals in here during the winter,” she said. “From seeds. I also grow African violets and some orchids.”
Rhett looked over the room with its orderly tables, its thicket of immature leaves, its neatly hung gardening tools, and he pulled out his cop book.
“Where do you want to start?” he asked.
Molly misted her violets, picking off old leaves as she moved. “You decide. It's your interview.”
“You know just as much about what I need as I do.”
Molly glared at him. “You want to earn those big stripes or not, Rhett? Don't make me do your work for you.”
Rhett raised only one eyebrow in reaction. All Molly could think of was how many hours Rhett must have stood in front of a mirror trying to master the muscle control.
“You're not a suspect of any kind,” he reassured her. “You know that, don't you?”
Molly kept her attention on her plants and sucked in a tough breath. “That doesn't matter worth a damn. You know that, too? The minute this all gets out, I'm going to be the only meat on the counter. If this guy is as bad as he seems, we're going to have every sleazy magazine and news crew on three continents here. And because we can't give them another damn thing to expose or scoop, they're going take apart my life for the viewing pleasure of all the morons who tune into that stuff.”
Now Rhett's voice was very quiet. “Do you have some things you don't want people to know?”
“The only person my revelations will be important to is me. Which is why I don't think they belong on national news.”
“This doesn't involve just you,” he corrected her. “It involves everybody you've known your whole life.”
For a long moment, Molly didn't so much as move. She just stood there staring at the velvet pink petals of her violets.
“You knew that,” Rhett said quietly. Rhett, who was much smarter than he seemed.
“Of course I knew that.”
She just hadn't admitted it to herself. Not really. Not even after studying
Sexual Homicide
. Molly compartmentalized because it was easier. It was quieter. It kept her life manageable and her dreams only occasionally terrifying.
Sexual Homicide
. Molly compartmentalized because it was easier. It was quieter. It kept her life manageable and her dreams only occasionally terrifying.
And now Rhett was asking her to throw open all those old boxes at once.
“Your military history,” he prompted, a new note in his voice.
Empathy. God, Molly hated empathy. Where the hell was Frank with his “who gives a shit” attitude? Rhett was going to strip her raw and leave her bleeding with those John-Boy eyes of his. And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it, because he was right. They had to stop this guy, and the only way was to find out as much about her as they could.
Somewhere in her past, this monster had touched her. Had smiled or frowned or screamed just for her. And Molly, somehow, had to remember.
“By military history,” she said, brusquely tending her overtended plants, “I assume you also mean the information you considerately left out of the summation this afternoon about my various cognitive vacations at Rancho V.A.”
Amazing how just the sound of shuffling feet could convey misery. Poor Rhett.
Molly finally faced him. “Rhett, honey, it's okay. Winnie knows all about it.”
Rhett looked almost fierce. “Yeah, but the colonel doesn't.”
Molly sighed, wondering what she'd done to deserve a watch puppy. “He will.”
Rhett looked, if possible, even more miserable. “You want to talk about it?”
Molly laughed. “Don't be stupid, Rhett. Of course I don't want to talk about it. But I'm going to have to. It's part of that deep evaluation, just
like both of my marriages and the seventeen or eighteen jobs I've had since Nam.”
like both of my marriages and the seventeen or eighteen jobs I've had since Nam.”
Rhett blinked. “Both?”
Molly sighed, already tired of this game. “Both. You want 'em alphabetically or chronologically?”
“Will they talk to me?”
“The one who's still alive will. As for the stays at Uncle Sam's Prozac Palace, I'll sign permission for you to check files. Those would be more reliable than my memory.”
Rhett bent to his book. “Uh, how many ⦠I mean, how often ⦔
“I did four short tours before I found somebody on the outside who understood the concept of a woman having post-traumatic stress. Once I hooked up with him, I managed on the outside much better.”
As long as she had her Paxil.
And her silence.
And it wasn't Christmas or summer.
“I never ⦠uh ⦔ If possible, Rhett was looking even more miserable. And Molly, caregiver since birth, took pity.
“You never thought of women having post-traumatic stress. I know. Nobody really did. It's okay, Rhett. I'm not going to start screaming or pull out an AK-47, if that's what you're afraid of.”
He looked as if she'd slapped him. “I'd
never
⦔
never
⦔
But he sat. He sipped at his tea. He flipped open his book and thought about things. “I would have thought ⦠I don't know ⦠didn't your, uh, husband ⦔
“Husbands,” Molly amended as she pinched some more leaves and thought about fertilizer. “Make it better? Sex doesn't cure all, Rhett, no matter what Frank tries to tell you.”
Rhett, unbelievably, blushed.
“On the other hand,” Molly said, just to see him get redder. “It's been so long, I'm not sure I wouldn't mind finding out if it still doesn't make things worse.”
Silence. Throat clearing. Molly wondered how he lasted an hour with a pimp in an interrogation room without passing out.
“Two husbands, Rhett,” she said, leaning against a high table across from him. “One at a time, of course. John Michael Murphy, 1973 to 1981.
We married here at College Church and divorced in Los Angeles. He was a great kisser and wild about the Dead. It's fitting, I guess. He is now himself. Jammin' with Jerry Garcia.”
We married here at College Church and divorced in Los Angeles. He was a great kisser and wild about the Dead. It's fitting, I guess. He is now himself. Jammin' with Jerry Garcia.”
“I'm, uh ⦠sorry.”
Molly shrugged. “Not as sorry as he was. He was into stoned skydiving. Problem is that when you're stoned you tend to forget what the cord's for.”
Pause. Blush. “Oh.”
“His mother might hate me, but she's ninety. I doubt she has the energy to chew the meat off bones, much less toss 'em in vats.”
“So he was from St. Louis?”
“Went to Mary Queen of Peace.”
Which in the small world of St. Louis, told Rhett everything he needed to know about the dear, late, still-lamented John Michael. In St. Louis, a person was defined by his parish boundaries, and John Michael's parish boundaries pronounced him upper-middle class bordering on pretention, conservative, with parents who were likely Republican, college-educated, and committed to Catholic education, sports, and keeping a perfect lawn.
They'd tried so hard, she and John Michael. Both castoffs from the same war, both trying to outrun their nightmares. Early on they'd tended to alternate times in the hospital. Then John Michael had discovered the spiritual bliss of chemical oblivion and found another way out.
“After that was Peter Paul Perkins, 1982 to 1985,” she said briskly. “I guess I must have been into alliteration. Or big dicks. He had both. Come to think of it, he also
was
one.”
was
one.”
“But he's, uh, alive.”
“In Idaho somewhere. He bounced in the opposite direction from John Michael. Went from pleasantly interesting lab tech to born-again, militant militia leader. Soldier of the lord in the fight against UN infiltration.”
“What about his family?”
“Happily building the final outposts of civilization in the mountains. They weren't at all disappointed when I declined the offer to join them. I'm tainted, ya know. My brother is in the government.”
“Which means?”
Molly grinned. “Why, that he's a lackey for the UN invasion forces. I'm sure the Perkins family would only visit so they could unearth Martin's
manual for reading street signs backward for the time he takes over Idaho for the Belgian army.”
manual for reading street signs backward for the time he takes over Idaho for the Belgian army.”
“What is his official title?”
“Martin or Peter Paul? Peter Paul is, I believe, Colonel Perkins. Catchy, don't you think? My brother Martin is Undersecretary of Commerce, or cattle, or something. He is presently in China finding facts.” She grinned briefly again, the image of Martin in blue helmet and cammos distracting. “As you might imagine, Peter was as popular with my family as I was with his.”
“Would you ⦠I mean, consider your ex-husband ⦠um ⦔
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