Evil at Heart (5 page)

           
Henry didn’t visit in the mornings. At least he’d never come while she was there.

           
“You can trust me,” Susan said. She knew that Henry didn’t believe her. And maybe it wasn’t even true. But Susan wanted it to be.

           
Henry started to reach for the call button, but then hesitated and turned back to her. “You know what a journalist is?” he asked.

           
“What?” Susan asked.

           
Henry’s expression didn’t flicker. “A dead reporter.”

           
“Ouch,” Susan said.

           
“I stole it,” Henry said.

           
Susan leaned forward. “You hear the one about the woman who got pulled over for speeding?” she asked. She never remembered jokes. But she’d heard her mother tell this one so many times it had stuck.

           
“Don’t tell it if it’s not dirty,” Henry said.

           
Susan brushed a lock of purple hair out of her eyes. “The cop asks why she’s in such a hurry,” she said, “and the woman explains that she’s late for work. ‘I suppose you’re a doctor,’ the cop says, ‘and someone’s life hangs in the balance.’ ‘No,’ the woman says, ‘I’m an asshole stretcher.’ ” Susan giggled. Henry’s face clouded. It occurred to Susan at this moment that maybe Henry wouldn’t like this joke, but there was no turning back, so she went on. “ ‘An asshole stretcher,’ the cop says. ‘What’s that?’ ‘It’s where you start with one finger,’ the woman says.” Susan lifted one of her fingers and wiggled it for effect. “ ‘And then work in a second until you’ve got your whole hand in there.’ ” Susan demonstrated, like she was stuffing a turkey. “ ‘And then the other hand, and you keep stretching until it’s about six feet.’ ” She pantomimed it. “ ‘What do you do with a six-foot asshole?’ the cop asks.”

           
“Let me guess,” Henry said. “Give him a badge.”

           
Susan dropped her hands back in her lap. “You’ve heard it,” she said.

           
Henry pressed the buzzer. “Mine was better,” he said.

           
“I can write a good book about this case,” Susan said. “Something important even, maybe.” They both knew what that meant. Not like The Last Victim. “Gretchen is a celebrity to some people. I want to explore that. I want to understand the cultural fascination with violence.”

           
“Come on, Susan,” Henry said, lifting his hand to the back of his neck. “Let him move on.”

           
“You know what I’m working on now?” Susan said. “It’s a bathroom book. A thousand weird ways people die. Like how many people a year are killed by falling coconuts.”

           
“How many?” Henry asked.

           
“About a hundred and fifty,” Susan said. “They’re really dangerous.” She raised her finger again. “The point is I can’t do this Gretchen book without him.” She gave Henry a pleading look.

           
A female voice cracked over the intercom. “Can I help you?” the voice said.

           
“Finally,” Henry muttered. “It’s Henry Sobol to see Archie Sheridan,” he said.

           
“I’ll be right there,” the voice said brightly.

           
Susan wasn’t ready to give up. “I watched her cut his throat,” she said. She and Henry had both been there. Susan had held a dish towel on Archie’s neck, felt his warm blood soak the cloth. She blamed herself for Gretchen’s escape. She wondered if Henry blamed her, too. Susan had, after all, in a blaze of panic, provided Gretchen with access to a gun.

           
Henry looked her up and down and then frowned. Susan thought he was going to say something snarky about her hair. But instead he squinted at her and said, “You take care of yourself, right?”

           
“I take vitamins,” Susan said.

           
Henry sighed. “I’m talking about varying your route to work,” he said. “Locking your door at night.That sort of thing.”

           
The hair on Susan’s arms stood up. Henry would only ask her that if he thought there was a chance she might be in danger. “Oh, God,” she said. “You think it might actually be her.”

           
“Just take precautions,” Henry said. “Can you do that?”

           
A knot of anxiety tightened around Susan’s throat. Take precautions? She’d moved back in with her mother. They hadn’t locked the front door of their house for as long as Susan could remember, until two months ago. Since then, Susan’s mother, Bliss, had lost eight keys. “What happened out there?” Susan asked. “Is there something you guys aren’t releasing?”

           
The door opened and a nurse appeared.

           
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Henry said to Susan.

           
“You think I don’t think about her all the time?” Susan said. “I see her face everywhere I go. It’s on every channel. I saw a kid downtown yesterday selling RUN, GRETCHEN T-shirts. They sell these heart-shaped digital key chains that count the days since she’s escaped. In L.A., you can get a Gretchen Lowell manicure. French pink with bloodred tips.”

           
The nurse stared at Susan. Susan didn’t care.

           
“If she’s back in the area,” Susan said, “the people have a right to know. You have to go public.”

           
Henry walked through the door.

           
“I’ll wait here,” Susan said. The door closed. Susan sank back in her chair. If Gretchen was back, she’d pick them all off one by one, just for fun.

           
She called Derek again.

           
He didn’t pick up.

           
Susan dug into her purse, pulled out her car keys, and checked the digital readout on the key chain. Gretchen had been at large for seventy-six days and counting.

           
If she made it a hundred, a bar downtown had promised to serve free Bloody Marys to the first one hundred blondes who walked through the door.

           
If you were going to be murdered, you might as well be drunk.

           
C H A P T E R 7

           
The clay was the last thing on Archie’s mind, but he rolled it under his hand anyway, until it was a smooth ball. They were ten minutes into morning craft period. Archie was sitting across the table from his roommate, Frank. Craft period. Gretchen was out there somewhere killing again, but safe inside the funny farm, he was playing with clay.

           
Archie didn’t mind the craft projects. He didn’t mind Frank’s snoring, or the group therapy sessions, or the slippers. He had come to like being told when to eat and when to sleep. The fewer responsibilities he had, the less chance there was he’d fuck them up.

           
He was locked up. And he was free. His team, the task force he’d led for the better part of his career, was out there looking for Gretchen Lowell without him. And for the first time in forever he didn’t care. If Gretchen wanted him dead, she’d kill him. It didn’t matter where he was. They wouldn’t catch her. Not unless she wanted to be caught.

           
Then Henry walked in. And Archie felt, despite himself, a stirring of his old obsession.

           
Henry dragged a seat over from another table and sat down with Archie and Frank.

           
“Goat spleen,” Henry said. “Human eyes.”

           
Most of the other patients were outside on the caged balcony smoking, and, except for the TV blasting Animal Planet, the common room was quiet. Archie looked across the table at Frank. He was concentrating on his clay and didn’t look up.

           
Henry leaned forward and tilted his head toward Frank. “Can I talk in front of him?” he asked.

           
“Frank and I don’t have secrets,” Archie said. “Do we, Frank?”

           
“Clay feels like babies,” Frank said.

           
Henry cleared his throat. “Okay, then,” he said. He scratched his ear and looked at Archie. “The ME says we’ve got three pairs of eyes.”