Whisper in the Dark (A Thriller) (5 page)

Adjacent to this was a wire-mesh security cage that led to the maze of hallways that made up the detention unit. A lone guard sat at a desk just inside the gate, and a sign above it read ESCAPE RISK.

Thanks to funding cutbacks, both public and private, institutions like Baycliff tended to use such facilities until their last living breath. This one was definitely in the gasping phase.

All in all, it was a far cry from the upscale office suite Tolan had once shared with Ned Soren. And the world of book signings and television appearances and standing-room-only speaking engagements seemed like another life, belonging to someone completely foreign to him.

Normally Tolan wouldn’t bother coming through the lobby. Like all the other doctors on staff, he carried a special key card that got him in through any of the three private entrances located at the sides and back of the building. But hospital policy forbade allowing outsiders such access, and with Blackburn tagging along, they had to take the traditional route.

As they approached the security gate, Blackburn said, “I don’t think I have to tell you that time is of the essence.”

Tolan nodded. “I understand. But if she’s suffering from any real psychosis, it could be weeks or even months before she opens up.”

“That’s not what I want to hear, Doc.”

“I’m not a miracle worker,” Tolan said. “Far from it.”

“Maybe not. But you’re the closest thing I’ve got.”

 6 

S
OLOMON NEVER DID
get his chili dogs.

After the incident on The Avenue, he’d lost his appetite and spent the next couple hours wandering the streets, feeling like somebody had ripped the guts right out of him.

He couldn’t stop thinking about those wild eyes. The ones that should’ve belonged to Myra, but didn’t.

Around about 5:45, he found himself standing in line at the Main Street Mission. They served a decent enough breakfast, and he figured, hungry or not, he’d better get some food in him before his body staged a revolt.

One of the folks in line, a young tweaker named Trinity, took one look at him and said, “You okay, Sol? You look like you seen a ghost.”

Solomon had seen something, all right, but it wasn’t any ghost. Ghosts were bullshit. The kind of thing you’d see in some cheesy chick movie, like that one with Demi Moore making clay pots and staring dewy-eyed at Patrick what’s-his-name as he professed his everlasting love.

Ghosts were all Hollywood, and Solomon was convinced that what he’d seen this morning was pure Louisiana. Not the Louisiana of po’boys and Zydeco and drunken college girls flashing their headlights at Mardi Gras. Not even the Louisiana of shrunken heads and mojo beads. But the one he’d known as a child, the one his grandfather had taught him about, where bad things lurked and faith was as much a weapon as it was a source of comfort. Where the divine vision was sometimes accompanied by the beat of a dark drum and the smell of rotting flesh.

When he was nine years old, Solomon and his little brother, Henry, used to take the caps off soda bottles, jam them into the soles of their tennis shoes, and head on down to the Quarter, where they’d tap dance for nickels and dimes.

One day, they were headed back to St. Thomas, their pockets full of change, when Solomon got distracted by a discarded hubcap, thinking it would make a pretty good tip jar.

Henry, who wasn’t quite six and had about as much sense as a brain-damaged cocker spaniel, wandered into the street without looking, and got himself hit by a police car.

Solomon looked up just in time to see his little brother go under the front bumper, tumbling beneath the car like socks in a dryer, only to be spit out the back looking as if every bone in his body had been busted.

Along with his head.

A spray of nickels and dimes littered the street around him.

The cop brought the car to a sudden stop, threw open his door, and staggered out. He had a bottle in his hand. He took one look at Henry, threw up on the side of the road, then climbed back into his car and hightailed it out of there.

A little while later, more cops showed up and Solomon told his story. Then his mama came and his grandfather, too, and pretty soon there was a lot of crying and screaming going on, most of which he didn’t want to remember.

They never found the cop who killed Henry. Never even tried, according to his grandfather. But one night, shortly after the funeral, when Papi was tucking him into bed, he kissed Solomon on the forehead and said, “Don’t you worry, boy, Henry got The Rhythm on his side now. And when those drums start beating, he’ll rise up, and he won’t stop until the world’s been synchronized and he gets the one who wronged him.”

At the time, Solomon wasn’t quite sure what his grandfather meant by all that, but he was smart enough to know that it couldn’t be good. Because in Solomon’s mind,
he
was the one who had wronged Henry. If he hadn’t been playing around with that hubcap, if he’d been watching his brother like Mama always told him to, then Henry would be alive and cuddled up next to him right now.

Solomon started to cry then, thinking how much he missed his brother, and he almost wished the stupid little runt would rise up from the grave at that very moment and come after him, because
he
was the one who deserved to die.

He cried well into the night and every night after that for almost a month. But the drums never beat and Henry never showed up. And Solomon would be lying if he didn’t admit that he’d felt just a touch of relief.

A year later, almost to the day of Henry’s death, he was staring at the
Times Picayune
over Papi’s shoulder when he saw the picture of a cop who had blown his own brains out in the middle of the county morgue. The cop had gone there late at night to investigate a break-in. Why he’d decided to shoot himself was a mystery to everyone concerned, but Solomon immediately recognized him and pointed him out to Papi.

Papi nodded. “That’s right,” he said softly. “Your brother did good.”

A
FTER SIXTY-
six years living in poverty, Solomon was finally driven out of Louisiana by the bitch herself, Hurricane Katrina. The night the levees broke, he was stuck in a jail cell on a drunk and disorderly, watching from a wire-mesh window as Katrina unleashed her fury.

He didn’t know if the cops had forgotten about him or left him there intentionally, but they were long gone by the time the storm was in full bloom. Before the night was over, Solomon found himself waist deep in water, calling out for help.

But no help came.

Three days later he was still there, huddled on the top bunk of his cell, stinking of his own bodily waste, alive thanks only to sheer willpower. All the strength had been sapped out of him, but he still managed to call out every once in a while, hoping someone might be within earshot.

Then, finally, thankfully, a face appeared at the window. A kid of about fourteen. “You okay, mister?”

“Besides the fact that I’m hungrier than a motherfucker? I’m doin’ just fine.”

The kid grinned, then said, “Hang on,” and a moment later he was banging at the mesh with something solid, looked like a crowbar. It took awhile, but he managed to pry enough space for Solomon to slip through, then pulled him into the battered row boat he was piloting.

“Got me a bus,” the boy said, handing Solomon a hunk of beef jerky. “Just across the way. I’m headed up to Houston. I hear they been takin’ folks in.”

“Must be pretty bad, they takin’ us to Houston.”

“Bad ain’t the word, mister. We been fucked, and nobody gives a good goddamn.”

Solomon pulled himself upright then, taking in a full view of what he’d only been able to see a slice of from his jailhouse window. There was destruction in every direction. The city he’d spent his entire life in had been bulldozed, drowned, and left for dead.

Bodies floated in the water. Old folks. Young. Even little babies. It was only then that Solomon realized just how lucky he was.

The kid rowed his boat up a river that had once been a street, picking up a few more survivors, people looking as weak and shell-shocked as Solomon felt, all of them happy to be alive. Then the kid steered them to a patch of dry land, a debris-covered road where a beat-up old school bus was waiting.

He drove them all the way to Houston.

Every once in a while Solomon would catch the boy staring at him in the rear-view mirror. About halfway through the ride, a thought occurred to him—one that had been stirring at the periphery of his tired old brain ever since he’d seen that fourteen-year-old face in the jailhouse window:

The boy looked a lot like Henry. Or at least what Henry might’ve looked like if he’d lived that long.

Solomon could almost hear Papi’s voice.

Your brother did good
.

Those words kept rolling around in his head as he let the low rumble of the bus lull him to sleep.

H
E NEVER DID
return to Louisiana.

Reconstruction had been stalled by empty promises and government bureaucracy, and Solomon had no family left to go home to anyway. After he left Houston, he’d decided a new start was in order, so he used the few dollars a relief worker had given him and caught a Greyhound bus to Ocean City, California—part beach community, part urban melting pot.

He washed dishes for a while at a little bar and grill near the ocean called Riley’s House, but that ended when Riley burned the place down for the insurance money.

Despite all the smiling millionaires on TV talking about spikes in the stock market, times were hard for folks like Solomon. The days of tap dancing on bottle tops were long gone, and the nickels and dimes didn’t come easily. Without any marketable skills, jobs were scarce, and he couldn’t make rent at the shitty little hotel-apartment he’d been staying in.

So he wound up on the street. Spent some time wandering from shelter to shelter before migrating to the river bottom, where much of the city’s homeless lived.

Now here he stood, waiting in line for a plate of eggs he didn’t much feel like eating, thinking about the woman who wasn’t quite Myra and wondering where they’d take her.

She was dangerous, he knew that much. Hell, everybody did—but they didn’t really know what kind of danger. Not like Solomon.

Somewhere in his head he heard the beating of dark drums, and despite his fear, he wondered if he should do something about it. Warn somebody.

Because whoever had wronged that poor woman, whoever had caused the pain that was keeping her hostage to that unrelenting beat—

—was about to wish he’d never been born.

7 

“
JANE DOE NUMBER
314. Brought in on a 5150.”

Clayton Simm was at the tail end of his shift and looked it. His eyes were bloodshot and the circles under them were as dark as camouflage paint.

A native of Seattle, Simm had only recently moved to the Ocean City area. He’d been recommended for a staff position by an old Harvard classmate of Tolan’s and, in his short time here, had proven to have good diagnostic skills and even better instincts.

Tolan had quickly warmed to him. Especially after he’d agreed to work graveyard.

The three of them—Simm, Tolan, and Blackburn—stood near the EDU nurses’ station, where Simm stifled a small yawn and continued his recital of the facts.

“She was cleaned up and clothed by the nursing staff. I did a basic physical and found her to be malnourished but in fairly good health and free of injury, except for a few minor contusions on her arms and feet, and a pretty significant one near the right cheekbone. No sign of sexual assault. She appears to be about thirty-two years old, with a clear case of heterochromia.”

“Hetero what?” Blackburn asked.

“Heterochromia,” Simm said. “Her eyes are two different colors. Green and brown. It’s pretty rare in humans, but it does happen.”

“Any sign of glaucoma?” Tolan asked.

“Retinal exam came up negative, with no indication of hemorrhage or injury. If I had to guess, I’d say the etiology is genetic.”

“I don’t remember anything hinky about her eyes,” Blackburn said.

“It’s not always obvious,” Tolan told him. “Especially under less than optimal lighting conditions.”

“The patient has no other identifying marks or scars,” Simm continued, “except for a small tattoo of what looks to be a cartoon cat on her left shoulder. On arrival, she presented signs of mild catatonia. Offered no resistance to taking blood and urine samples, which were sent off for testing. The EMTs reported that just prior to transport she had an acute violent outburst accompanied by hysterical, disorganized speech.”

“A lie stands on one leg, the truth on two,” Blackburn said.

They both looked at him. “What?”

“That’s what she kept saying. A lie stands on one leg, the truth on two. Over and over again.”

It was a quote from one of Tolan’s favorite books. Abby had given him a copy for his thirty-seventh birthday.

“
Poor Richard’s Almanac,
” he said.

Blackburn shrugged. “You think her behavior could be caused by the drug abuse? Maybe she got hold of some bad powder or some PCP.”

“That’s always a possibility.”

“True,” Simm said. “But I didn’t notice any overt signs of drug use.”

Blackburn stared at him. “You’re kidding me, right? She’s a goddamn junkie. Got like a thousand needle marks on her arms.”

Simm’s gaze went to Tolan, then shifted back to Blackburn. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same woman?”

“I know who
I’m
talking about. Do you?”

“Sorry, Detective, but I examined her thoroughly. There was minor bruising, yes, but I didn’t see any needle marks.”

“Now, wait just a minute,” Blackburn said. “The eyes are one thing, I’ll give you that, but I know smack tracks when I see ’em.” He turned to Tolan. “What’s the story here, Doc? You letting the inmates run the asylum now?”

Tolan grimaced. If blunt were an art, they’d be calling this guy Picasso.