Rage Factor (25 page)

“Can you find out which hospital has a Foxworth listed in long-term care?”

“Foxworth, Foxworth—that’s the chick was assaulted in a local art gallery a few months back.”

Dixie hadn’t heard where the assault took place, but Brew read every major on-line newspaper in the country.

“Including her room number, if you can get it. I also need the Foxworths’ home address.”

Brew said give him two minutes on the hospital, then, scarcely missing a beat, rattled off the address. It was only a few miles from the Thomas residence.

Sliding into the driver’s seat again, Dixie noticed Fire Dweller now sported an extra pair of arms, complete with viselike pincers.

“Are you starving yet?” she asked Sarina.

“Boredom does not affect my appetite.”

“Did you check out your mother’s list?”

She grimaced. “There’s a metal sculpture show at the Museum of Modern Art. I could handle that.”

“Sounds good. We’ll get lunch somewhere near the museum. First I have another stop or two to make.”

Dixie had just parked in front of the Foxworth house when the call came from Brew. The hospital was Memorial Southwest. Not far at all.

“One more thing,” Dixie said as he was about to ring off. “Find out if anyone saw or heard anything in Memorial Park around the time Lawrence Coombs was attacked.”

“Memorial Park? You’re talking about one big stretch of pine trees.”

“He was found about fifty yards from the Crestwood entrance.”

“Right, like that helps.” He disconnected.

The Foxworths’ neighborhood was older than the Thomases’, and the house smaller, hidden behind a tangle of shrubbery, but far from shabby. Dixie insisted Sarina go along this time.

The doorbell was answered by the sad shrunken man Dixie had last seen in the courtroom. He blinked at her from behind silver-rimmed eyeglasses. Pouches of loose skin beneath his eyes gave him the gentle, melancholy expression of a basset hound. A clock chimed inside the house.

“Didn’t expect guests,” he said. “Expected my wife for lunch, but not guests. Did she tell me you were coming?”

“We only met briefly.” Dixie introduced herself and Sarina. “I had a few questions—”

“Well, then, Lowell Foxworth here. Come in, come in.” He waved them inside. “Always glad to have luncheon guests. Always plenty. Like to cook, you see. Leftovers from last night. Didn’t know we were having guests, or I’d have made fresh.”

“We didn’t come for lunch—”

“Nonsense, come in, have a seat. No, no, no—” He’d started to lead them toward a living room, or maybe the dining room Dixie could see just beyond it. “Let’s eat in the den. Cozier there. You’ll be more comfortable—especially you, young lady. What was your name again?”

“Sarina.”

“Beautiful name. Sarina.”

He led them into a room that would’ve been spacious if a baby grand piano weren’t occupying half of it A vase of deep red roses, beads of baby’s breath woven among them, sat on a crocheted scarf draped over the gleaming lacquered finish. The tantalizing aroma of roasted meat drifted from the kitchen.

“Here we are. Sit yourself right here while I bring in the tea. You do like iced tea, don’t you, child? Or would you prefer Pepsi? I like Pepsi-Cola myself from time to time. My daughter and I drink it. Grace prefers tea, but I don’t mind a Pepsi-Cola now and again.”

“Pepsi’s great.”

“I thought as much. Sit down now, sit down.” He rolled one of the chairs out for Dixie. “You have a beautiful daughter. Take care of her. She’s precious.”

Mumbling, repeating the word “precious,” Foxworth shuffled into the kitchen. He wasn’t an old man, probably not yet sixty, but he had doddering mannerisms that Dixie hadn’t seen in his wife at all.

Near the table, a wall of custom-built bookshelves held more volumes than it was ever intended to hold, books stacked in front of books, laced with religious ornaments and a gallery of framed photographs. In one picture, Lowell and
Grace Foxworth, a decade younger, perched together on the sofa Dixie had glimpsed in the living room. A girl of about fifteen with a halo of light brown curls sat between them. Dozens of other photographs showed the young woman growing up. Beverly Foxworth didn’t favor her dark, regal mother at all, or her sad-eyed father. But there were no baby pictures. Adopted? In the most recent photo, Beverly wore the gold cross Dixie had seen earlier today around Grace Foxworth’s neck. Or a damn good replica.

The mantel clock, carved distinctively in an art deco leaf design, chimed again. This time the Westminster melody lasted twice as long, signaling the half hour.

“Are you here about Beverly, then?” the man called from the kitchen.

Not exactly.
She was here to find out if Grace or Lowell Foxworth had taken their grief to Memorial Park, along with a big club, and beat hell out of the man who stole their daughter’s youth … health … innocence. “Your wife said Beverly is improving.”

He returned, carrying tall glasses of dark amber liquid. He placed the nonbubbly in front of Dixie. A slice of lemon was hooked over the tea glass.

“There’s sugar,” he said, “right behind you on the bookshelf. Fructose, only thing Beverly lets us use, not the blue stuff, or the pink, says it’s all bad anyway so just go easy and enjoy. Fructose. You’ll like it okay.” He rested his melancholy gaze on Sarina. “Beverly is not improving, no matter what Grace told you. The doctors tell us maybe she will improve when she wakes up, perhaps not. Perhaps she will not wake up at all. Grace hears what she wants to hear.”

Sarina’s eyes widened over the top of her glass.

“Your daughter’s in a coma?” she blurted.

He nodded and picked up the recent photograph.

“This is my Beverly. Precious girl. You’d like her. Everybody likes Beverly. You must hear her play the piano sometime. Better than Grace, even.” He handed the picture to Sarina, then shuffled back to the kitchen.

Dixie felt like an imposter, sitting here at the man’s table, trying to gather information that might incriminate him or his wife. She didn’t have to
use
the information, she told herself. And maybe there was no connection between the violent assault on Coombs and the disappearance of Patricia Carrera. Maybe this time her niggling suspicions were all wrong.

Anyway, Dixie couldn’t imagine this man as part of a reprisal party. He was too gentle to have done what was reportedly done to Lawrence Coombs, no matter how much rage and frustration festered inside him. She wasn’t nearly as certain about his wife. Grace Foxworth was a formidable woman, intense even in her photographs.

“Beverly looks so …
healthy”
Sarina whispered.

“Very healthy,” Lowell called from the kitchen.

Sarina looked stricken. The man had better hearing than she’d expected.

“A healthy girl, my Beverly. Going to be a physician, maybe, not like those doctors with needles and pills—a natural doctor, herbs, minerals, always good fresh vegetables, good meat. Except sometimes we drink Pepsi-Cola together.”

He returned with a tray bearing three steaming dishes. Dixie stood to help, but he waved her back.

“Sit. You are guests. We don’t have guests so often anymore.”

The food smelled wonderful. Beef tips stir-fried with a colorful array of peppers, squash, and beans. The clock chimed, extending the Westminster melody by another few bars.

“Aren’t we going to wait for your wife?” Dixie asked.

“Grace?” He waved the idea away. “She knows, lunch at eleven forty-five. If she wants to eat, she’s here. If not—” He shrugged. “Grace lives at the hospital. And the churches. I will take supper to her later. I go mornings, nights. Between, I have to work. Hospitals are not free.”

“What kind of work do you do?” Dixie sampled the beef. Excellent. The vegetables were al dente, the way Parker cooked them.

“Jeweler. Thirty-seven years.”

Dixie noticed he wore a gold filigree wedding band on his left hand and a broad, flat initial ring on his right, a single sapphire embedded in one corner. She recalled Grace Fox-worth’s diamond-encrusted pin and earrings. Not a symbol of ostentatious wealth, then, but of craftsmanship.

He’d paused at his own meal to watch Sarina. “You have a boyfriend?” he asked quietly.

“Me?” Sarina chewed and swallowed. “No. Too busy.”

“Good. Take your time. Date a boy your own age. I tell Beverly the same, but—” He waved a hand, dismissing his daughter’s response.

Lawrence Coombs would be ten years older than the Beverly shown in the latest photograph. Dixie’s conscience twitched at the thought of asking questions that would only bring this man more grief, but dammit, they had to be asked.

“I noticed you and your wife at Coombs’ trial. It must have been a blow, seeing him acquitted.”

Lowell put down his fork.

“That man! He was in this house, sat at this very table. Such a gentleman, bringing flowers, candy, wine. I tell Grace, this man is not right for our Beverly, but Grace, I think Grace was a little bit in love with him herself. She said, let the girl enjoy.” Lowell’s voice cracked. He picked up his Pepsi glass and sipped—with a shaking hand, Dixie noticed. “Now, this thing he did. Took my daughter first, then my wife. Grace is not the kindly woman she was before. And me …” He sipped again, set the glass down, and stared into his plate. “I never knew I could hate so much.”

The mantel clock chimed, this time a full minute, playing the Westminster carillon followed by twelve bongs.

Patricia shielded her eyes from a blinding light.

“Surprise
, Trisha. Surprise, surprise.” Betty Boop’s screechy voice.

Two shapes moved into the room. Patricia’s relief was like waking from a nightmare to discover it’s not a dream. They pushed close, until their warm breath brushed her cheek.

“Did you think we weren’t coming back for you?” Betty Boop demanded.

“No—” Patricia’s throat was so dry she could barely speak. She swallowed. “No, I knew you’d come back. You said you would.” As she’d always—always—gone back for Paulie.

“Are you ready to sign those papers?” The brunette’s coarse whisper.

“I … I want some water,” Patricia said firmly. “And I want to go to the ladies’ room.” She had to hold strong with her plan, no matter how much they frightened her. She would get what she wanted, then she’d refuse to sign their silly papers. Where was the redhead? she wondered.

“From the smell of you, sweetie,” screeched the blonde, “you made your own ladies’ room right here on the spot. Whew, what a stench you’ve made, spewing at both ends. A stench!”

Patricia flushed with embarrassment, but she kept silent, wanting them to hurry and let her go.

The light that blinded her moved to illuminate something. She blinked. A clipboard and a pen.

“Sign the papers,” the brunette said.

Betty Boop poked Patricia’s ribs. “Or maybe you’re beginning to like it here?”

No! She couldn’t stand it if they left her alone again!
But she’d fought Steve’s parents to keep Paulie, and she’d won. The court said Paulie was hers. She wasn’t going to sign those papers no matter what they threatened.

“I want some water,” she said. “And a ladies’ room.”

In the doorway a match snapped and flared. By its light, Patricia saw Raggedy Ann’s bright mop. Raggedy Ann was the one who frightened her most.

She held the match to the tip of a cigarette. A stream of smoke wafted into Patricia’s face. Patricia coughed, and her bladder leaked a few drops.

“Sign the papers, Trisha,” the redhead crooned, the yarn wig tangled around the vacant plastic face.

“Weatherman predicts a hard freeze tonight.” Betty Boop giggled. “This room will get awfully uncomfortable. Awfully, awfully. Especially with you in those wet panties.”

“I won’t sign anything until you give me some water,” Patricia insisted stubbornly. “And let me go to the bathroom.” But she worried they might actually leave—

Then her face was full of smoke and she coughed, and couldn’t seem to stop coughing. Urine gushed down her legs. Her coughing ended in a wheeze, and she felt the familiar, dangerous tightness in her chest that she had not felt since her last attack as a child.

“Jeez, she’s a wheezer,” said the blonde. “Guess we know where little Paulie inherited his asthma.”

“It’s the smoke … and the cold. I just need to warm up. Please—” Another spasm of coughing choked off her plea.

“Sign the papers.” Raggedy Ann said it calmly. “Then we’ll put you on a nice warm airplane.”

“After you take a shower, dearie. Wouldn’t want you grossing out the other passengers.”

“Paulie’s mine,” Patricia gasped. “I won’t sign him over to Steve’s prissy parents.”

Sudden pain—hair twisted brutally in a fist—brought tears to Patricia’s eyes. She gasped, sucking in rancid air that started a fresh round of coughing. Pain lanced her scalp, and then she realized they’d bound her hands again.

“Does it hurt?” The redhead’s mouth pressed close, her breath moist on Patricia’s cheek as the hair twisted tighter. “Paulie said it hurt him a lot when you pulled his hair.”

“I never—”

“Yes, Trisha. Yes, you did. But you were always careful not to leave a mark anyone would notice. Who would notice a little missing hair?”

She yanked. Patricia screamed as the strand tore free, sending a rip of agony all the way to her teeth.

“Hey. That’s enough.” The brunette’s gruff voice. “She’ll sign our papers now, won’t you, Patricia?”

“
I won’t let her
sign them,” said the redhead. “Not until she feels the misery Paulie felt. How about the hot poker trick, Trisha? That’s a good one.”

She yanked Patricia’s head back by the hair, but this time the pain was nothing compared to the threat of the cigarette near her face. A hand clamped under her chin, forcing her toward the heat.

“Let her go,” the brunette whispered roughly. “Let her sign the papers.”

The cigarette held steady. Patricia could feel it through her eyelid.

“Pull her eye open and tape it,” said the redhead.

“No—”

Hands pried at her eyelid, but she shut it tight, tears sliding down her cheeks.