More patient notes.
More articles.
More diaries. With shaking hands Tate and Bett read through them all but there was no clue as to any other buildings, apartments or houses where he might have taken the girl.
"There's nothing," Bett barked in frustration. "We've looked at everything." Tears on her face.
Tate gazed at the mess of scorched papers and files on their laps. His eye fell on a patient diagnostic report. Then another. He flipped through them quickly. Then read the name and address of the hospital where the patients had been evaluated.
He snatched up his cell phone and, eyes on one of the reports, made a call to directory assistance for Calvert, Virginia. He asked for the number for the Blue Ridge Mental Health Facility.
"Please be out of order," he whispered.
"Why on earth?" Bett asked.
"Please . . ."
"We're sorry," the electronic voice reported, "there is no listing for that name. Do you have another request?"
He clicked the phone off. "That's where she is. An old mental hospital in the Shenandoahs." He tapped the reports. "Matthews was a shrink. I'd guess he was on the staff there a few years ago. It's probably closed and that's where he's taken her."
"You sure?"
"No. But it's all we've got."
"Go, Tate."
He pulled onto the highway and steered toward the interstate. Thinking with frustration that they'd have to drive the entire way right on the speed limit. They could hardly afford to be stopped now.
*
Glass knife in front of her, Megan walked through the hallways.
There was silence, then the shuffling of footsteps. More silence.
I hate the quiet worse than his footsteps.
I'm with you there, Crazy Megan shares.
Then the steps again but from a different place, as if the intruder were a ghost materializing at will.
Five minutes passed. Another noise nearby, behind her. A sharp inhalation of breath. Megan gasped and turned quickly. Aaron Matthews was twenty feet away. His eyes widened in surprise. She stumbled backward and fell over a table, went down hard. Grunted in pain as the edge of the table dug into her kidney.
Despite the pain, though, she leapt to her feet, lifting the knife threateningly. She assumed he'd charge at her. But he didn't. He merely frowned and said, "Oh, my God, Megan, are you all right?"
Crouching, eyes fiery, breath hard, gripping the cloth handle of her wicked knife. Staring at his dark eyes, his large shoulders and long arms. Why wasn't he coming at her?
She glanced behind her.
"Wait," he said with a heart-tugging plea in his voice. "Please, don't run. Please."
She hesitated.
He sighed. "Oh, I know you're upset, Megan, honey. I know you're scared . . . You hate me and you have every right to. But please. Just listen to me." He held his hands up. "I don't have a knife or gun or anything. Please, will you listen?"
His eyes were so sincere, radiating sympathy, and his voice so imploring . . .
"Please."
Megan kept her tight grip on the knife. But she straightened up. "Go ahead," she whispered. "I'm listening."
"Good," he said. And offered her a smile.
Chapter Twenty-seven
"I didn't know you'd gotten out of your room," Aaron Matthews said.
"Cell," she corrected bluntly.
"Cell," he conceded, watching her eyes carefully. "But I should've guessed." He laughed. "You're the independent sort. Nobody was going to lock you away. It's one of the things I love about you."
Matthews noted how she fixed her gaze on his eyes. How her pale lashes stuttered when he'd said the word "love."
How had she done it? he wondered. He'd been over the cell so carefully--and the lock was still on the door. Had she gotten through the ceiling? The wall? And she was wearing some of his clothes. So she'd found his living area. What else did she know?
However it had happened, Matthews was surprised. It showed more mettle than he'd expected from the spoiled little whiner.
"Are you all right? Just tell me that." He looked her up and down.
No answer.
He continued, "I'm sorry about your clothes. When you passed out from the medicine I gave you . . . well, you had an accident. I'm sorry. I didn't think it would happen. I'm washing your clothes in the laundry room here. They're drying now. They should be ready soon. I didn't touch you. I swear."
He glanced at the knife in her hand. A long shard. He thought at first that there was something about the glass itself that was particularly unnerving, the sharp, green edge of the triangle. But then he decided that, no, it was her face that scared him. She was prepared--no, eager--to use the weapon. And so much in control . . . she'd be a hard one to crack. Harder than in Hanson's office, where her defenses were down and her self-esteem bubbling near empty.
He eased forward. "Oh, Megan, I'm so sorry."
The point of the knife tilted toward him and Matthews froze. He said in his best therapist's tone, "I didn't want it to happen this way."
He fell silent. And to fill the intolerable gap of silence she asked, "What way?"
"This . . ." He lifted his arms to the hallways. "If there'd been anything else I could have done, I would have. I promise you."
"What do you mean?"
He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes. "You don't really know me. But I know you. I've known you for a long time."
She shook her head, frowning, confused. The tip of the knife was pointed lower.
"My name's Aaron Matthews . . ."
She'd've learned his real name, of course--from looking through the desk in his rooms here. But tell someone the truth--no matter how much you've lied to them in the past--and you nudge them closer toward you, if ever so slightly. He continued right away--Matthews had a spell to weave and spells work best when cast quickly. "I worked with your father on a case last year. He hired me as an expert witness. To evaluate a suspect. We were talking before the trial. Just making conversation. And I asked about children, if he had any, and he said . . ." Matthews paused and his face grew somber. He continued, "I'm sorry, honey, but he said no, he didn't."
Megan's beautiful light eyes widened. Shocked for a moment. Then they grew deeply sad, as they had in Hanson's office. A child betrayed, a child alone.
What are the bears whispering to you?
"But I'd heard somebody mention his daughter and I asked him about you. He looked embarrassed and said that, well, yes, he did have a daughter. But she lived with her mother. He said you were technically his child but that was all. I told him about my son, Peter. See, he had some problems at birth. Serious mental problems."
Another flicker of lash. So she knew about him too. He said, looking down, "But I've always felt that, despite all that, I loved my boy and wanted him to be with me. I mentioned that to your father. But he didn't say anything. I asked him how often he saw you . . . He said virtually never. I asked him about you and he didn't seem to know much at all. And then--" Matthews stopped abruptly, like a man finding himself in a minefield.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"No, tell me," she said with faint desperation in her voice.
"He said some things about you."
"Please." The knife was pointed straight down. Her face was no longer fierce. "I want to know."
"He said being more involved with you would be . . . awkward."
"No, he didn't," she whispered. "He didn't say that at all, did he?"
"I'm not sure . . ." Matthews stammered, putting a vulnerable look on his face.
She muttered, "He said being involved with a child would be inconvenient. Right?"
"Yes," Matthews conceded, sighing. "I'm so sorry, Megan. But that's what he said. And when I heard it, all I could think of was how I hoped you had a good relationship with your mother. I hoped someone cared. I felt so bad for you."
A faint laugh then her face went still. "My mother. Yeah,
right."
He cocked his head, offering her another sympathetic glance. And continued, "Well, I went to see her. When you were in school one day."
"You did?"
Matthews eased a few inches closer. He decided that anger wouldn't work with Megan, unlike with her boyfriend, Josh. The madder she got, the more dangerous she'd be. No, the way to get inside her defenses was to tap into her sorrow and loneliness.
"I lied, Megan. I'll admit it. I told Bett I was a counselor with your school and I wanted to know how you were doing. I was shocked to find that she didn't have much time for you either. She told me she was engaged, trying to make that relationship work, was totally absorbed with Brad, didn't have much time for . . . well, she said, for baby-sitting."
"She said that?" Megan gasped.
"In fairness she said you were very mature and didn't need a lot of hand-holding."
"How would she know?" Megan muttered.
Matthews swayed toward her but the coldness returned to her eyes and she asked, "But why the fuck did you kidnap me?"
"Because I wanted to give you a second chance, Megan."
"Kidnapping me? What kind of chance is that?"
He looked down and rocked back and forth on his feet, moving a good six inches closer to her. "Oh, Megan, yes, I kidnapped you. But I'd never hurt you. That was the last thing on my mind." If she'd seen the room, she'd probably also seen the kitchen. He said, "I can prove it. I'll show you the kitchen. It's filled with food that you like. I found out what you liked and I bought a lot of it."
She nodded. Her defenses slipped a bit more. "You were the one following me for the past couple weeks."
"That's right. I followed you. And I talked to people about you too. Teachers, students. And the more I learned about you, the more I couldn't understand your parents. You're creative, you're funny, you're pretty, you have a sense of humor, you were artistic . . . You were everything a teenage girl ought to be. Why didn't they want you? Your parents, I mean?"
Her lip began to tremble. She wiped tears.
"It was so unfair," he whispered. "I wanted to give you the love that they never did. Parental love, I'm speaking of. I hope you know that . . . I think you're beautiful but I don't desire you physically." He nodded toward her padded cell. "I could have done that when you were unconscious if I'd wanted to."
Her eyes told him that she understood it. That she'd checked her body for tenderness, for moisture.
But the eyes hardened again. She asked, "But there's more, isn't there? There's another side to it."
He smiled. "Oh, you're smart, Megan. You're very smart. Yes, there's another side. I wanted another chance too. I told you about my son. The problems I mentioned? They were pretty serious. My wife . . . she drank and had a Valium habit when she was pregnant. I tried to get her to stop but she wouldn't. My son had permanent brain damage . . . Oh, I wanted a normal child. Someone I could spend time with. Have fun with. Someone I could spoil." He remembered something Bett had told him earlier that evening. "I wanted someone to play games with, to spend Christmas and Easter with, Thanksgiving. To make oatmeal and pancakes for. To hang out with on Sunday in sweats and sneakers and read the paper and rake leaves."
From somewhere, he summoned a tear.
"You wanted me to be your daughter," Megan said softly.
"Yes! But there was no way you would've agreed on your own. Or even listened to me. You would've thought I was some kind of crank and called the police. So I did what I had to. I waited until I had a chance--Dr. Hanson's mother getting sick--and I arranged with him to see you."
"That part was true?"
"Oh, yes. Of course it's true. We're friends, Hanson and me." He smiled indulgently. "Though I think I'm a better therapist than he is. I get right to the core of the problem."
"Yeah, you sure as hell do." She offered a faint smile in return.
"You didn't like those letters, I know. But I had to make you see how angry you were with your parents. I had to make you see the truth."
"That's why you made me write them?"
"Yes."
"What did you do with them? Did you send them?"
He frowned. "The letters? No, I threw them out. Writing them was for you, Megan. I thought maybe, here, we could get to know each other for a while. I'd hoped you'd stay for a few weeks, a month. If it worked out, fine. We could move to San Francisco, you could start college there in the fall."
He'd moved another few feet closer to her. He was slumped, diminished, looking mournfully at the floor. Matthews had decided how she'd die: He'd strangle her. Her eyes would grow wide and he'd stare at them, drink them in as she died. Pull the glass knife from her hand and get a grip on her neck. Squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until the tip of her protruding tongue stopped quivering. And squeeze some more after that.
It was the way Peter had killed the slut who'd tried to seduce him. Maybe it was the way Peter himself had died. The body was so mutilated the prison doctor hadn't been able to be certain of the cause of death.
Tears flooded the eyes of the inconvenient child.
"Oh, Megan, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just thought that you deserved so much more than you had."
She was shivering with the sobs.
"A father who wanted to be rid of you. What a terrible thing . . . He wanted to get you out of his life and get back to those ridiculous young women he chased after. And your mother . . . a dear woman but a child herself, really. I thought about all sorts of things--how I could adopt you, get you into a foster home . . ."
"You really thought that?" she asked, wiping her face. Her attention was wavering from the glass blade. Her hand was in the shadows at her side. The hallway was dim and he couldn't tell whether the knife was pointed downward or at him.
"Yes, I sure did. I talked to a lawyer about adoption. He said I wouldn't have a chance, not with your natural parents around, however neglectful they were." His voice was soft, lulling.
Megan wiped her face again. "I just wanted to be loved."
"And they didn't love you, did they? They didn't give you any love at all."
"No."
"Oh, I would've done things so differently . . . and that's why I took this chance. I'm risking life in prison just to see if something might work out between us. I just wanted you to have a home." He too was crying now. "I just wanted a family! That's all I've ever wanted too."
She was sobbing uncontrollably now, hand over her face. "Yes! That's it. A home. I never had a home. I wanted a father so badly."
Matthews stepped closer, reached out a tentative hand and touched her cheek, wiped away a tear. He could almost feel her under his hands, peeing and thrashing as she died. He'd leave her body out for the dogs. So that Collier would have to live with the terrible memory of what the crime scene photos revealed.
"I wish I could have done it differently," he said. "I mean, this place is so disgusting, Megan. But I didn't have any choice. For both our sakes."
"I just--"
He reached out his other hand and put his arm around her shoulder. Rubbed her back.
"I just wanted a home . . . only a home." She struggled to breathe.
"I know you did." His right hand moved down her face to her neck. His left slipped down her arm until he gripped the glass knife she held.
He gently pulled it out of her hand.
Got you! he thought.
But then he glanced down, frowning. It wasn't a knife at all. In his hand was a plastic Bic pen. But he'd seen the blade . . . He looked into her face.
Saw the leering smile.
"Nice try," Megan whispered.
And with her left hand she jammed the glass blade deep into his side. Once, then again. And again.
A flash of terrible pain shot through him and Matthews howled. He twisted hard away from her and the blade snapped on a rib, leaving a long glass splinter inside him.
Now Megan screamed--an insane wail--and as the doctor groped for his wound she slammed her open palm into his fac
e. A huge pop as his nose broke and blood spurted. He went down on his knees. She kicked him near the knife wound and his vision went black from the astonishing pain.
She came forward but he swam back to consciousness quickly and now it was his fist that connected hard--slamming into her jaw, sending her backward into the wall. By the time he was on his feet she was disappearing down the dark corridor.
He touched the wound. The pain was bad. But it was nothing compared with the feeling of shock that raged through him. She's the one who fooled me! Suckered me in nice and close, got my defenses down. My God, the whole time I thought I was playing her but she led me right into the trap . . .
Her father's daughter, Matthews thought in fury and disgust.
He dropped to his knees and began working the fragments of glass out of his wound, actually savoring the pain; he wanted to remember it. He wanted to feel what Megan was about to experience.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The basement . . .
She plunged into the dim corridors of the hospital, looking for the basement door she'd seen earlier.
Her jaw ached and the back of her head too--from where she'd slammed it into the wall after he hit her. For just a moment she'd thought about leaping on him again--seeing him lying there, blood filling his shirt, blood dripping from his nose. He'd looked half dead. But she wasn't sure that he was hurt as badly as he seemed. He might have been faking. If he lied with words, he'd lie with actions.
So she ran--to find the basement door.
She heard Matthews's unearthly scream--it seemed to shake the walls--and then footsteps.
Making slow circles through the corridors, she finally found the door, the one leading to the basement. She grabbed a cinder block and smashed it down on the hasp and lock, which snapped off easily.
Megan flung the door open, looked down into the musty place. For a moment she was paralyzed.
No choice, girl, Crazy Megan the tour guide shouts. Move, move, move.
But Josh, she protested silently, I can't leave him.
Hey, if you die, he dies. Go!
She clomped down the stairs and found herself in a dimly lit warren of corridors. Trotting slowly from room to room, she took care to avoid the standing water so she wouldn't leave footprints he could follow.