Agnes Hahn (32 page)

Bransome came up behind Grayson. “Welcome to the obvious, champ.”

Dr. Leahy seemed excited. “It’s not schizophrenia. It used to be called multiple personality disorder, but now it’s DID—dissociative identity disorder. And ever since Charcot and Babinski, most psychologists think it’s therapy induced. Not in this case. There hasn’t been any therapy. This is the real thing.”

“How do you know she isn’t cooking all this up?” Grayson kicked at the floor. “To let Lilin get away?”

Bransome started to say something, but Jason interrupted. “We’ll let the DNA answer that question. Until then, you may want to contact Agnes’s lawyer. And you better meet him face to face instead of having Detective Bransome fake a phone call. I don’t think you’re going to get your life sentence on this one, so you better start preparing your opinion brief. You agree, Dr. Leahy?”

“She’s going to need to be institutionalized, but not in prison. If the DNA comes back as a twin sister, your team of psychiatrists won’t disagree with me on this one.”

Grayson stomped down the hall and disappeared.

Bransome looked at Jason and smiled. “Sorry about slamming you. Are you all right?”

“I could use a couple of aspirin. But first, we have one more detail to cover. Can you give Wilson a call? There has to be a way to get from Agnes’s backyard into the U-Store lot. I checked the fence from one end of Agnes’s backyard to the other, but there might be a breach somewhere else. There has to be an opening, or we’ve got a loose end to explain.”

“Done,” Bransome said as he walked to the workroom.

Jason opened the door to the interrogation room and hesitated. Agnes turned in the chair and smiled. He walked to the table and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Agnes stood and reached for him. She put her hands on his shoulders and pulled close, leaving a small gap between them. “Thank you. You are one of the good ones.”

He kissed her cheek and took her hands off of his shoulders. “You’re welcome. Everything’s going to be all right now. They’ll take good care of you.”

Jason walked to the door and grabbed the knob.

“You’ll wait for me?” Her voice sounded different.

He turned around. The smile on her face looked like a blend of Agnes’s dimpled grin and Lilin’s vicious sneer. The hair on his arms stood straight up as he pushed through the door.

J
ASON STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF HIS LIVING ROOM AND
stretched his arms straight out at shoulder height. It was nice to be back in his own apartment again, listening to the curses of the golfers on the sixth hole, smelling the cat pee odor of the wet eucalyptus trees, trying to force himself to go out on the patio after dark.

It wasn’t nice to remember what happened the last time he was here. He couldn’t believe it was Agnes’s hand that held the razor that sliced the air inches from his neck. Even if it wasn’t her mind, it was her hand. Yet, through it all, Lilin had just used Agnes. Used her to get to Eddie. Used her for all of the murders. The only good thing—now Agnes would get the help she deserved. Maybe she could get back what Lilin had taken from her. Maybe she could be Agnes without Lilin. If so, Jason wanted to be there.

The Rolling Stones broke into “Beast of Burden” on the stereo, probably a little loud for the day-sleeping neighbor above. And even though his future at the
Press Democrat
was more unsettled than before, normalcy seemed within reach.

The alternation between guilt and justification had settled at dead center for now. After all, it was his reappearance in Mulvaney’s office that had sent the editor into the tizzy that ripped the bulging cerebral artery, depriving the better part of the right side of his brain of oxygen. It had taken Jason a full ten seconds to pick up the phone and dial 911, mostly due to the shock of watching Mulvaney crumple to the floor. If anyone would die standing up, it was Christian Mulvaney.

The latest news helped settle the sliding scale. Mulvaney’s family was about to take him off of life support. The doctors found so many nodules in his lungs they’d have an easier time cutting out the good tissue. And the ventilator was about to blow a gasket trying to adequately work lungs that were well below 50 percent functional.

Jason walked to the sliding patio door and unlocked it. He could get two, maybe three hours of work done on the laptop before dusk chased him back inside. The assignments from the interim editor were all simple ones. Easily banged out in fits of effort. He’d fill in the gaps working on his book.

Collecting his computer and stack of notes under his arm, he paused. His favorite part of the song was coming up.

The doorbell interrupted the moment. Jason strode to the door, setting his burden on the credenza. He was mellow enough to be polite to a salesperson. He peered through the peephole and froze. His hands thrust against the door propelling his body backward. He stepped up and looked again.

Light brown hair in a slightly ratted shell. She stood sideways, her face turned away. She turned her head and dipped it forward. Her hair slid across her cheek.

Jason pushed his face into the door.

Her hand fished down into the scoop neck of her deep maroon blouse and adjusted her breasts upward.

He shoved away and ran to the patio door. It was hard to throw the small lock lever with his hands in a violent Parkinsonian shake. He scanned the apartment. Too late to turn down the stereo.

The doorbell rang again.

Thoughts sprinted past. Agnes. Deception. Lilin. Razor. He ran to the front bedroom and pressed his face against the wall next to the window. He could see the edge of the front porch, but no one was there.

His little toe caught the bed frame as he ran to the window in the back bedroom, and the pain swamped his desire for silence. Two hops and he fell backward on the bed, his initial scream subdued into rhythmic grunts. It was the same foot the GTO had mashed.

A loud curse came through the back bedroom window. Probably a golfer. Please be a golfer. He rolled off the bed.

The only window on the side wall facing the parking lot was a small, sliding bathroom window, more than five feet above the tub/shower. He stepped up on the edges of the tub and growled. Too early to put weight on the toe. His balance was awkward, making time inch. The parking lot was deserted except for two cars—his and his upstairs neighbor’s.

Jason stayed on the tub until a cramp in the arch of the already traumatized foot redoubled his limp. What should he do now? No answer came. Lie low? Wait? He slinked back into the rear bedroom and slid onto the bed. His mind swirled on alert, further slowing the clock.

The sun burned directly through the bedroom window, low in the sky, sliced into parallel beams by the nearly closed mini-blinds. Jason rolled away on the bed, but then bolted upright. Can’t stay here. Especially after dark.

He grunted as he slipped his shoe over his sore toe and gathered his keys, jacket, and laptop before he realized he didn’t have a destination. Where was safe? At work? Not a good idea. Mendocino? At the police station? That might be expected.

He closed the door behind him and keyed the dead bolt. An explosion of adrenaline accompanied the clunk of the lock. Just drive. Away from here.

The sprint to the car was tempered by tightness from the shoe on his injured little toe. His pedal foot. The pain had settled into a dull, pulsing ache. Driving would ratchet it up. “Least of my problems,” he said to himself as he jumped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. The electric door locks calmed him like a pacifier plugged into a teething toddler.

He selected a random path through the city, complete with U-turns and serpentine veers, all the while conducting a rearview scan for a trailing vehicle. It wouldn’t be the GTO. It was in the police impound lot in Mendocino. The more aggressive itinerary, compared to the night of his initial meeting with Lilin, required repeated, painful shifts between the gas and brake pedals, but the pain was less than expected. A raised glass to natural endorphins.

Fifteen minutes of random turns and twists left Jason only a mile and a half from his apartment. A yellow light gave him time to think. Where to now? Only one thing was certain. He didn’t want to be alone. Even a loner like Mulvaney went out in company.

The police. Go to the police. But could he positively identify the person as Lilin Hahn? No. So, what could they do? Take a report and send him on his way, no better protected than now. Bransome came into his thoughts again, but like before, the drive was rejected. Too dangerous if it was Lilin. Who else could help? The light turned green.

He pulled his wallet from his pocket and fumbled in the bill compartment. An embossed card provided a business address and phone number but not a home address. He knew who to call to get the information, but he’d have to leave the safety of his car. In his haste, he forgot his cell phone in his apartment. Were there pay phones near the police station?

The metal phone cord stretched tight across his neck, but he needed to keep his eyes on the street. The pay phone was a block down from the station, within sight, but barely. Every car that crawled by presented a challenge in the dimming light. He ignored the ones with more than one occupant. But most were drivers-only.

He needed a miracle. And he got it. “Hey, big brother. I need a home address.” The information on the card should be enough.

Two more single-occupant cars came by and decelerated. The phone was too close to the corner. A voice in the phone broke the tension.

Jason realized he had a pen but no paper. He rested the pen on the back of his hand and circled it on his skin until it left ink. “Go ahead.”

The condominiums were on the far side of the city, with cultured lawns and shrubs pruned to a millimeter tolerance. Dr. April Leahy lived three buildings in, near a swimming pool, hot tub, and exercise complex. Climbing to the second-floor condo, Jason suppressed a grunt. His toe throbbed with raw pain, topped by a dull ache in his ankle. He hoped the trip was worth it. Then again, maybe Dr. Leahy could lend some sense to his confusion. At the very least, she would be company.

Jason paused at the door. What would he say? Hello. Lilin really exists, and she’s on my trail? Care to put up a condemned man? Should he leave her in the dark and pretend it was a social visit? Pretty lame all around.

He took a deep breath and rapped on the door with the knuckles of his right hand. His left hand was embedded in his jeans pocket. He thought he heard shuffling inside, then the light in the peephole blinked. The doorknob turned.

He forced a smile.

The door flew open and a returned smile nearly filled the doorway. “Jason. What a surprise.”

He stood motionless. Voice cracking like a teenager’s, he stammered, “You cut your hair.” His eyes drifted to the scoop neckline of the maroon blouse.

April fingered the cut ends of her hair, now at jaw level. “Yes. I needed a change. I’m glad you stopped by. I was at your apartment earlier. No one answered.”

Jason’s shoulders slumped. He thought his eye blink would last forever. “It was you.”

“You were there? Why didn’t you answer?”

“I’m embarrassed to say. Not to be forward, but maybe a beer would loosen my tongue.”