Primal Fear (25 page)

She was tiny, a waiflike figure in a yellow rain slicker, her head pulled down into its flared collar, saucer-eyes fearfully peering up at him. Vail recognized her immediately.

“Mr. Vail?” she said in a faltering voice.

“Linda! Come in, please,” he said, swinging the door open wide and leading her inside by the elbow. “What a great surprise. I’m glad you came. Here, get that wet coat off.”

“I can’t stay long,” she said in a minuscule voice as he helped her off with the slicker and hung it on the hat tree.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he said. “A Coke? A cup of coffee?”

“Coke’d be nice.”

“You like it in the old-fashioned six-ounce bottle or in a glass with ice?”

Her smile was cautious. “I always drink it out of a can. Bottle might be fun.”

She followed him into the kitchen, her eyes appraising the surroundings, then watched as he popped the cap off. She took a deep drink and sighed.

“Haven’t had a Coke for a while,” she said, then hurriedly, “I can’t stay long.”

“So you said. You have a place to live?”

She nodded but did not offer an address, then she blurted, “Mr. Vail, I didn’t see Aaron for three weeks before he killed Bishop Rushman.”

“You think he killed the bishop?” Vail asked, freshening his coffee.

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“Were you there, Linda?”

“Where?”

“At the bishop’s the night he was killed?”

She looked shocked at the suggestion. “Of course not!”

“Then how do you know Aaron did it?”

“Well”—she shrugged—“because he was hiding in the church with the knife and all…”

“How do you know it wasn’t Peter or Billy Jordan?”

“You know about that?”

“About what?”

“Nothing,” she said defensively. “Why would they want to kill the bishop, anyway?”

“Why would Aaron?”

“I don’t… no reason I know of.”

“He never showed any anger toward Bishop Rushman?”

“No …”

“Was he jealous of you?”

“Aaron isn’t the jealous type. Anyway, why should he be jealous of me?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I asked.”

“Look, I called Sister Mary Alice and she said I should talk to you. I told you, I don’t know why Aaron would want to do a thing like that. I don’t know anything about what happened.”

“Did he blow up often?”

“Aaron? He never blew up. He takes things as they come.”

“You think he killed Rushman but you don’t know why, is that it?”

“Yes.” She hesitated a moment and added, “You talked to my mom and stepfather, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t. A man who works for me did.”

“They don’t care.”

“On the contrary. They looked for you for a year. They gave up because they thought you were dead.”

“I want them to think that. I’ll never, ever, go back there.”

“Want to tell me why?”

“My stepfather used to beat hell out of me.”

“Why?”

“I got in trouble in school.”

“What did you do?”

“Smoking pot.”

“When you were thirteen?”

She nodded. “I started when I was eleven. I even tripped a couple times but it wasn’t fun, too scary, y’know. I got caught and Everett, my stepfather, he hit me with his hands. Hard. Once he blacked my eye and another time he knocked one of
my back teeth loose. It was like Aaron’s father with the belt. You know what Everett did? Every morning before I went to school he’d smack me around. Then he’d say, ‘You do any drugs, I’ll finish the job.’ And my mom was just like Aaron’s, she didn’t do doodly shit, just went out of the room. Maybe that’s why it felt good to be with Aaron, he understood things.”

Her lips began to tremble.

“Every day Everett… did that. Then the morning of my thirteenth birthday…”

She stopped for a moment. Tears seeped down her cheeks.

“…he said for my birthday he … wouldn’t hit me anymore … and I was crying I was so happy, and then, just as I was going out the door, he grabbed me and he swung me around, and …”

The tears were coming hard now. Vail put his arms around her and held her. Her arms were limp at her sides and she sobbed as she spoke.

“… and said, ‘Well, just… one … more time,’ and he smacked me so hard … from way back over his shoulder … and knocked me across the room and then he just went upstairs laughing and my lip was bleeding … it hurt so bad … I can still remember how bad it hurt…”

She stopped and let the sobs come, wracking her body like chills.

“It’s okay,” Vail said. “Let it loose, you’ve got a right. Listen, you’ve dried out now, Linda. That’s something to be proud of. There’s no reason for him to hit you anymore.”

She moved back away from him, her arms still hanging loose at her sides, the Coke forgotten in one hand.

“No, it’s worse. I’m pregnant, Mr. Vail. Sister told me you know. You know what he’d do? It isn’t much of a guess.”

“Do you think Aaron’s the father?”

“Most likely he is.” She finished the Coke and put the bottle on the counter. “Thank you,” she said.

“How about another?”

“I have to go.”

“Linda, why did you come here?”

“ ’Cause I can’t help Aaron and I want you to stop looking for me.”

“Maybe you can help him.”

“How?”

“I need you to testify.”

“About what?”

“The altar boys.”

She panicked. She backed away from him, terrified, her eyes like the eyes of a cornered animal. She whirled and darted for the door. Vail caught her arm as she reached for the doorknob and turned her away from it.

“Listen to me …” he began.

“I won’t do that!” She spat the words out. “I’ll never admit that!” Then her eyes narrowed. “I’ll lie. I’ll tell them it isn’t true.”

“Linda, it may help for the jury to know what really went on. What the bishop made you do.”

“You want me to do that? People will hate me … hate us all. How can that help Aaron?”

“It explains why Aaron did it. The awful things the bishop did to you all—”

“Don’t you understand?” she yelled, cutting him off. “He didn’t make us do anything! After a while it was fun. We
liked
it!”

She turned and ran out the door and vanished into the rain-swept night. Back in the office the phone started ringing.

“Ah, shut up,” Vail snapped at it, and decided to let the machine answer. He went back to his desk and lit a cigarette. The machine clicked on and a tough, no-nonsense voice said:

“Mr. Vail, this is Trooper John Leland of the State Patrol. If you know Dr. Molly Arrington will you please call—”

Vail snatched up the phone.

“Yes!” he almost yelled into the phone. “This is Martin Vail.”

It had taken Vail thirty minutes to round up Naomi Chance and get on the road to Easton and less than an hour to get to the small hospital, which was a block off the main street. The emergency room consisted of a single operating room and an adjoining recovery room. As they entered, a doctor in a white gown and paper shoes left the OR carrying a clipboard.

“Excuse me, Doctor,” Vail said. “My name’s Vail.”

“Oh yeah, Dr. Arrington, right?”

“Right.”

“I’m not the doctor,” he said casually, leading them down the hall. “I’m a nurse.”

“Sorry,” Vail said.

“That’s okay, common mistake. Actually my wife is the doctor. She’s in Emergency working on the truck driver. He wasn’t as lucky as Ms. Arrington.”

“How bad is she hurt?”

“Well, she’s got a knot the size of a tomato on her head and a nose full of Demerol. She’ll be groggy for about twelve hours, but she’ll be okay.”

“Can we take her back to the city tonight?” Vail asked. “We can put some blankets on the back seat. She should be comfortable.”

“I’ll have to check with the doctor but I don’t think it’ll be a problem. She’ll probably have a bad headache for the next day or two. Her coat and briefcase are at the receiving desk, you can pick them up on your way out.”

“Thanks for everything.”

“Well, she was very lucky. I hear the car’s a wipeout.”

“That’s Midwest Rental’s problem,” Vail said, shaking his hand.

The nurse ushered them into a small recovery room. “There she is. Good luck,” he said. “Come back sometime when you can stay longer.” He smiled and left the room.

She was lying on a bed in the corner, staring at the ceiling.

“Hey,” Vail said. “Where’d you team to drive, Doc?”

She looked at him crazy-eyed. “Not ’round here, tha’s f’ sure,” she said groggily, her eyes trying to focus on Naomi and Martin.

“Marty?” she said groggily.

“Right here.”

“Don’t call m’ Doc, ’kay?”

He laughed with relief.

“Never again, Molly.”

“Truck forced m’ off the road. ’M I hurt?”

“You’re fine. Just a bump on the head. You’ve got a snootful of Demerol, that’s why you’re so dizzy. Naomi’s here, we’re taking you home.”

“Than’ you. Marty?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s tape in m’ briefcase. You … must look at ’t. Tha’s why … was comin’ back.”

“Sure.”

“Be sure …look ’t the tape.” She paused, her eyes roving crazily from the Demerol. Then she said:

“Marty, I met the bishop’s real murderer today.”

TWENTY-THREE

Covered with a wool blanket, Molly was curled up on the back seat of Naomi’s sedan, wavering between sleep and Demerol-induced hallucinations. But the revelations of the past twenty-four hours so dominated her mind that they intruded on her painless daze. She was neither asleep nor awake but instead was suspended in that alpha state between dreams and reality, drifting aimlessly from past to present. It was a bright day and she was standing at the edge of the cornfield where her mother’s ashes had been spread. The golden stalks wafted gently in a spring breeze. Dogs zigzagged through the field, barking at butterflies. Her brother, young and mischievous, with the horror of Vietnam still ahead, lured her into the field, hiding among the tall stems and laughing at her as she thrashed deeper into the bountiful meadow. There was no sound or scent in her fantasy, just bright colors and a feeling of great joy. Was it ever thus, she wondered. Were these facsimiles of the past or were they real? Had their lives ever been that free and gay or was this remembrance a narcotic revision of the past? It did not matter. For a fragment of time she was sublimely at peace with the world. Then the present intruded. Her brother led her out of the cornfield, and in the background was a structure she knew but did not immediately recognize. His spirit of gaiety changed and he seemed suddenly melancholy, a mime whose smile had become cheerless, whose joy had become a lament. He led her into the building. She was back at Daisyland. In that claustrophobic room. And when her brother turned to face her, it was Aaron. He lay on the cot. She sat behind him. The video camera was focused on them both. So compelling were the events of that day that fantasy became fact; her dreams became veritable.

For several weeks, Molly had interviewed Aaron twice a day, six days a week. Almost sixty hours of talk, as she probed deeper and deeper into the young man’s mind, looking for clues, looking
for discrepancies in his story about blacking out, jumping back and forth in time, at times focusing for days on specific events. This was intense therapy and there were days when they both burned out. The physiological tests had shown no brain damage and her interviews had turned up nothing new except that Aaron had suffered from fugue attacks for years, although she was sure that sometimes he was not aware he had “lost time” because the interval had been too short to notice.

During the weeks of therapy she dutifully avoided two subjects: Rebecca and the altar boys. She sensed the tension when she approached these areas and veered away rather than lose the ground she had gained. She sensed he was getting closer to transference, to accepting her as confidante and friend. But moving too quickly into danger areas could cost her the progress she had made.

One Tuesday morning, she decided to test the dangerous waters. Now, with only three weeks left before the trial, she had decided to lead him gently into what could be a mental mine field.

“I want to go back to Crikside for a little while,” she said that morning.

“Okay.”

She checked her notebook. “You said the first sexual experience you ever had was with Mary Lafferty when you were in high school.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said. He began to get nervous, shifting on the cot. He looked back at her and smiled.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You trust me, don’t you?”

He turned back around and got comfortable. “O’ course,” he said.

“Did you and Rebecca ever talk about sex?”

“We talked ’bout ev’rything,” he said, distrust creeping into his tone.

“So she discussed sex with you.”

“Y’know, birds ’n’ th’ bees, like thet.” He chuckled uncomfortably.

“Did she talk specifically about making love?”

“You main how t’ do it and thet?” he said suspiciously.

“Yes.”

“Well, I s’pose so.”

“Did she touch you, Aaron?”

“Why d’you want t’ know thet?” There was an edge in his voice.

“Because I want to make sure you’re being perfectly honest with me. And I have some questions that must be asked. Did Rebecca make love to you?”

“Damn.
Damn!
Why’d you have t’ say thet? Why’d you ask her thet?”

“I didn’t, Aaron. She volunteered the information to Tom Goodman. It’s all right, I’m not accusing you or judging you, I just want to make sure we have everything straight before we go into court.”

“I won’t talk ’bout thet. Ain’t got nothin’ t’ do with all this.” He was getting angry for the first time. He sat up suddenly, swung his feet to the floor and sat stiff-armed, clutching the side of the cot. He looked away from her and his body seemed to sag. His eyes narrowed. He looked down at the floor.

“It might,” Molly said. “Back here you said… let me find it.” She looked down at her notebook, leafing through the pages.

Suddenly it seemed as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. She gasped for breath in the void. She felt chilled. The back of her neck tingled. A hand reached out and covered hers, and a voice she had never heard before, a sibilant whisper, a hiss with an edge to it, an inch or two from her ear, said, “He’ll lie to you.”

She jumped and looked up. He had moved closer to her, sliding to the end of the cot so quietly she had not heard him. He was leaning forward, only a few inches from her face. But this was not Aaron. He had changed. He looked five years older. His features had become obdurate, arrogant, rigid; his eyes intense, almost feral, lighter in color, and glistening with desire; his lips seemed thicker and were curled back in a licentious smile. Even his body seemed straighter and harder. She felt an instant of terror, feeling his hand on hers, watching him lick his lips very slowly.

“Surprise,” he said, his voice a soft rasp. There was not a trace of Appalachia in his accent. It came straight from the city’s west side. She drew her hand very slowly out from under his. He looked down as she did, then held his hand up quickly as if taking an oath.

“Sony, no touchee, right? Talk but no touch? Typical.”

He swept the hand down suddenly and grabbed her by the throat and squeezed, his fingers digging deeply into her flesh.
“You can’t scream so don’t even try.” He smiled. “See this hand? I could twist this hand and break your neck.
Pop!
Just like that.”

She was terrified. She prayed the guard would look through the peephole but she had been explicit in forbidding anyone from observing her sessions with Aaron. Then just as suddenly he let her go. She backed away from him, rubbing her neck, her mouth dry, her pulse rampant.

“I didn’t hurt you, Doc,” he whispered with a sneer. “I coulda hurt you. Know why I didn’t? ’Cause, Doc, we’re gonna be friends.”

He sat in her chair. Even his body language had changed. He was contentious, insolent, aggressive, intimidating. She sensed that he was close to the edge, a man about to explode, just barely in control, except for the venomous, grating whisper.

To her, he was suddenly disconnected from the room, a body sitting in a chair suspended in light and surrounded by darkness as she subconsciously isolated him from reality.

She could see the spasms of her pulse in her wrist and she was breathing fast and trying to modulate it. She knew what was happening, had seen it before, but it was always exciting when it happened, when she lost control of the interview and then subtly tried to get it back without disrupting the delicate balance of the moment.

“Who are you?” she asked pleasantly.

“Oh, you’re very cool, Doc,” he said in his flat, edgy tone. “You’re one cool lady. But I knew that already. I’m Roy.”

“Roy?”

“Yeah.”

“Roy who?”

“Just Roy. Make believe I live at Savior House.” He laughed contemptuously. “What a crock that is, huh?”

“Do you come out often, Roy?”

He looked at her suspiciously. “That depends. How often is often?” he asked.

“Once a day, once a month.”

“I come out whenever I feel like it,” he said with a sneer.

“So you make the choice?”

“That’s right.” He stood up and strolled to the end of the room and back. He walked with a strut, an arrogant kind of hitch in his stride that she had seen in street toughs.

“Why haven’t you come out before?” she asked. She was
still standing against the wall. He turned her chair around and sat backward on it, his arms wrapped around it, one wrist clasped with his other hand.

“It wasn’t time to meet you until a couple of weeks ago. You two were becoming such fuckin’ buddies …”

“And that upset you?”

“Sometimes I come out for a minute or two, say something just to get him in trouble. He ends up catchin’ shit and he doesn’t even know why.” He chuckled.

“Can you give me an example?”

“How about the first time? Shackles—you know about Shackles, I heard him tellin’ you about that freak—Shackles is tellin’ him how he’s goin’ to hell and Sonny’s standin’ there, shakin’ in his boots, scared to death, and I sneak out and I say, ‘If you had a dick between your legs instead of a worm, you’d go right down there with me.’ And I pop back in and Shackles goes totally apeshit and Sonny takes off like a rabbit with a fox on his ass. I used to think, One of these times he’s gonna act like a fuckin’ man.
Yeah, stature
.”

“You call him Sonny?”

“Yeah. I knew this kid in the second grade—a real sissy—name was Sonny Baxter. That’s who Aaron reminds me of: sissy … Sonny … Baxter.” He paused between each of the words for emphasis.

“How long have you lived with Aaron?”

“Why?”

“I’m just curious.”

Is he faking? she wondered. Was he a psychopath who had invented this other personality to cover up a homicidal psychosis? She had seen a couple of patients try to fake multiple personality but they were never very convincing. Roy was
convincing.
If he were faking, she felt sure it would come out in therapy sessions. It would be, she believed, impossible to fake the condition for long. She had to play along, let him make the moves, and study everything he was doing: his body language, his tone of voice, his attitude.

One thing she was now sure of—either Aaron had a multiple personality or he was psychotic as hell. Time would tell which.

“You tryin’ to catch me up?” Roy snapped. “I know all about you, lady. You can fool him but you can’t fool me. You’re really needling your way in there.”

“No. I’m trying to get to know him. And you, Roy.”

“No shit. Why? Why do you want to get to know me?”

“Because you want to know me. Isn’t that why you came out?”

“Well, you got me there.” He smiled again, a cold, insolent smile that was neither humorous nor sincere. “You know the answer anyway. I’ve known him all his life.”

He never took his eyes off her and he slowly flexed the fingers of his free hand as he spoke.

“But he doesn’t know you, right?”

The smile passed, replaced with apprehension and distrust. “No,” he said insolently. “That’s our little secret. You and me.”

“You’ve been together nineteen years?”

He nodded. “But I’m twenty-eight.”

“Oh? What did you do before you met Aaron?”

He grinned and leaned slightly forward against the back of the chair, his voice even lower than usual. “I was warming up,” he said. “I didn’t come out until when he was about eight.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “He didn’t need me until then. Then for a long time, he wouldn’t let me back out.”

“I thought you were in control.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Jesus. Not in the beginning, Doc. Took time.”

“Why do you dislike Aaron so?”

“Never has the guts to
do
anything. Oh, he
wants
to do it all right, but I’m always the one that ends up doing the dirty work while he runs and hides.”

“Hides?”

“Stands in the corner facin’ the wall. He doesn’t wanna watch. Holier-than-fuckin’-thou,” he said nastily. His eyes narrowed. “But he’s the one gets off. He’s the one has all the fun. So he takes all the heat, too. You blame me for that?”

“No, I don’t blame you.”

“Go ahead, butter me up.” He smirked. “I love it.”

“Where’s Aaron now?”

“Ah, he’s hiding,” he said with a disgusted wave of his hand.

“What if he wants to come back?”

“He has to fight for it,” he hissed, his lips curling back with scorn. “That night with the bishop and all? I waited until we were in the kitchen before I let him come back …”

Laughter.

“I’ll tell you, he didn’t know
what
the fuck t’ do. There he is, covered with blood … on his hands …”

He wiggled his fingers in front of his eyes. “… face …”

He stopped, held his hand up in front of his face and stared at it, as though, like Macbeth, he actually could see that brutal blade, its handle toward his hand.

“… knife in his hand … shoes sittin’ by the door.”

He leaned forward and whispered softly. “I whisper in his ear, ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are …’”

Laughter.

“
Shiiit.
He pops out and goes totally bananas, sticks on the shoes and runs for it. Next thing y’know, the cops pop open the confessional and he’s tellin’ them he didn’t do it! For Christ sake, he didn’t have a clue what he was talkin’ about.”

He jumped up and began pacing from one side of the room to the other. But he never took his eyes off Molly. “He’s yellin’, ‘I didn’t do it!’ and he didn’t even know what it was he didn’t do. See what I mean, Doc? All wimp and a mile long, that’s our fuckin’ little Aaron.”

“Then
you
planned to kill the bishop?”

“Who says I killed the bishop?”

“Then who did?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody?”

“Nobody
killed
him. He was
executed.”

“Executed?”

“Don’t you understand? He let the mask down.”

“Mask?”

“Work it out.” His lip curled up in a half laugh, half sneer, his eyes narrowed, his voice became more threatening. “Let me tell you something, sister, I know everything he knows. Ever knew. I got a better memory than he has. Sonny couldn’t remember shit without me.”

“Who let the mask down?”