Evil at Heart

  This was ridiculous.

  Gretchen was long gone. And if she wasn’t—well, Gretchen Lowell wouldn’t be caught dead in a Ford Explorer.

  The phone in her lap vibrated again and Susan flinched.

  She closed her eyes. This couldn’t continue. At this rate she’d be dead of a coronary before she turned thirty.

  The phone. She picked it up off her lap and answered it. She could barely make out the voice on the other end over the wail of electric guitar coming through her dash speakers. “What?” she said.

  The voice got louder. “Hello?” It was a man’s voice. She didn’t recognize it. He sounded confused. “Hello?” he said again.

  Susan turned down her car stereo. “Sorry,” she said. “Are You Experienced.”

  “Am I what?” he asked.

  “Not you,” Susan said. “The album. Hendrix. Are You Experienced.” It must have been lunch break at the hospital because traffic was crawling. “Can I help you?” Susan asked.

  “Susan Ward?” the man said.

  Her full name. Susan’s fingers tightened around her sheepskin steering-wheel cover. She knew where this was going. “I sent in that student loan payment yesterday,” she said. She was lying. “Swear.”

  There was a pause. “What?” the man asked.

  This part of Glisan was all flower shops and bars. “This isn’t Sallie Mae?” Susan asked.

  “No,” the man said.

  Susan mentally inventoried the bills stacked next to the Vogue on her coffee table. “Visa?” Susan guessed.

  “I’m not a bill collector,” the man said.

  “Oh, good,” Susan said. The light at the upcoming intersection was red and Susan came to a stop behind a long line of cars. It started to rain and she turned on the windshield wipers, which needed replacing and only made visibility worse.

  “I want to talk to you about a story,” the man said.

  Susan’s fingers tightened again. Another pissed-off reader. Excellent. Why did people feel the need to let her know every time they found her irritating? “If you have a problem with something I’ve written, the best thing to do is write a letter to the editor,” she said.

  “You wrote to me on my Web site,” he said. “You said you were interested in writing about our group.”

  Susan had written to hundreds of Gretchen Lowell fan sites over the last few weeks asking for interviews and information. “Who are you?” she asked. “What site?”

  “There’s a body at three-nine-seven North Fargo,” the man said.

  Not funny. “Who is this?” Susan asked.

  “Someone who appreciates beauty,” he said.

  There was something deadly serious in the man’s voice that gave her a sudden chill.

  “Is this for real?” Susan asked.

  Someone behind her honked and she looked up to see that the light had changed.

  She turned around to see a man in a black SUV giving her the finger. She hit the gas. “Hello?” she said into the phone. She looked at the phone LCD screen. Disconnected.

  Susan’s heart was racing now. She pulled over to the curb, letting the guy in the SUV whip around her without even giving him a dirty look. “What the fuck?” Susan said quietly. She highlighted the incoming number and called it back.

  No one answered. No voice mail. It was a local area code. But she didn’t recognize the number.

  If there was a body, why tell her? Why not call the police? Should she call the police? That would be silly. Bothering them based on some weird phone call. Henry would think it was another joke.

  But if it was real, and that guy was from one of those Beauty Killer fan clubs, then she’d really have a book. She’d have her pick of agents. Archie might even agree to be interviewed. And she’d have a great opening chapter . . .

  What was the address? Fuck. Three something? Three-nine-seven? Susan looked around for a pen, and found several on the floor of the passenger seat. She grabbed a candy wrapper out of where she’d stuffed it in a cubby in the car door and turned it inside out. Fargo. She wrote that down on the white inside of the wrapper. It was North Fargo. Three-nine-seven North Fargo. She was almost positive.

  The Gorge would have to wait.

  C H A P T E R 10

  There were eight therapy sessions a day at the Providence psych ward. Archie went to four. Two mental-health groups. Two substance-abuse groups. Archie wasn’t sure why they bothered breaking them up. It was all the same people. Most of them went to every session. It was something to do in between episodes of Emergency Vets.

  “Do you want to stay?” Sarah Rosenberg asked him.

  “No,” Archie said. He’d helped push the tables to the side, and then to arrange the chairs in a circle at the center of the room. “This is the schizophrenics and bipolars session. The depressives aren’t meeting until two.”

  “Your sense of humor is returning,” she said.

  “Is that a good sign?” Archie asked.

  He followed her across the hall to one of the individual counseling rooms. He met with Rosenberg every day for twenty-five minutes. Why twenty-five and not an even thirty, he didn’t know. But he guessed it had something to do with insurance.

  “How’s Debbie?” she asked.

  Archie sat down in one of the two brown Naugahyde chairs that faced each other in the room. A light rain slapped against the window. “Probably a little tense,” he said.

  Rosenberg sat in the opposite chair and set her coffee cup on the armrest. “What’s happened?”

  Archie didn’t know how much Henry had made public. “I just think it must be exhausting. Living out there, knowing that Gretchen could show up at any time.”

  “Does she like Vancouver?” Rosenberg asked.

  “Being in a different state makes her feel safer,” Archie said. The truth was they didn’t talk much. She brought the kids by once a week to visit him, but she didn’t stay. She’d started seeing an alternative-energy entrepreneur, whatever the hell that was. They’d drop the kids off and go get a bite to eat downtown. “I try not to make it complicated for her.”

  Rosenberg tilted her head and looked hard at Archie. “It’s important to you that she feel safe,” she said.

  Archie leaned his head on the back of his chair and looked up at the ceiling. There was a sprinkler overhead. Just in case he burst into flame. “Yes.”

  They were quiet for a moment.

  Archie could hear someone shouting in the next room.

  “Do you feel safe?” Rosenberg asked.

  Archie lifted his head back up and wagged his finger at her. “I think I know where you’re going with this,” he said.

  Rosenberg sat forward, resting her elbows on her thighs. “You’re off the painkillers. Your health has stabilized. You need to check yourself out of here. They have an excellent outpatient program. You’ll get a lot of support.”

  Archie shook his head. Even if he wanted out, he had nowhere to go. “My liver enzymes are still high,” he said.

  “Frankly, with the amount of Vicodin you took I’m amazed you’re not on the transplant list,” Rosenberg said. “If you want me to let you stay, you need to make an effort. You need to practice functioning outside this hospital. You’re Level Four. Go for a walk.”

  The rain was picking up. Archie looked out the window. The ground was too dry. It would flood. “She’s out there,” he said. He could feel her. It was a stupid thing to think. People couldn’t feel each other’s presence. He wasn’t psychic. He didn’t believe in auras, or souls, or cosmic connections. But still he knew—as much as he knew anything—that Gretchen was never very far from him.

  Rosenberg put her hand on his and looked him in the eye. “There will always be serial killers,” she said. “There will always be bears in the woods.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “Bad things happen. People die.”

  Archie couldn’t concentrate. The shouting from across the hall was getting louder. A woman’s voice, but Archie couldn’t make out whose.

&n
bsp; He wondered what was on Animal Planet right now.

  Rosenberg sat staring at him. Waiting. That’s what being on the psych ward was like, everyone watching you all the time waiting for you to twitch or scream or say you were better, thanks for everything.

  Archie had been good at waiting. It was a useful skill when you were interviewing witnesses. Gentle silence. Almost everyone felt the need to fill it, and that’s when the details surfaced. People would tell you anything, just to avoid sitting quietly.

  But Archie still wasn’t used to being the one expected to do the talking. He pulled his hand out from under hers. “Just ask the questions,” he said. The questions, and he could go. The sessions with Rosenberg always ended with the same three questions. Anything changed since yesterday? Rate your mood. Any immediate concerns?

  “If you get out of here,” Rosenberg said, “you can still have a life.”

  What life? He’d driven his family away. His job was tenuous. He had nowhere to live. The only thing he had was Gretchen.

  He’d have to leave, of course. He knew that. But not yet.

  He was not ready to leave yet.

  He had one card and he decided to play it. He looked her in the eye. “I’m still a danger to myself,” he said. He knew that as long as he said it, they couldn’t force him out. But for the first time in two months, it was a lie. He didn’t want to die. The deal with Gretchen was off. She’d threatened to kill again if he killed himself, and now she’d started to kill again anyway. He was free to do it, with only his own blood on his hands.

  And he didn’t want to die.

  He wanted to kill her. He wanted to kill Gretchen. That’s why he had to stay inside. Because if he let himself back into the world, he would hunt her down and he would hurt her.

  Rosenberg frowned and her eyebrows knitted. “At some point you’re going to have to forgive yourself.”

  Forgive himself. Right. Archie rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and allowed himself a wry chuckle. “Sarah,” he said. “I had sex with a serial killer.”

  Rosenberg didn’t miss a beat. “Which part do you hate yourself for more?” she asked.

  She waited.

  But the silent treatment didn’t work.

  There was too much shouting from across the hall.

  Archie looked up toward the door.

  “They can handle it,” Rosenberg said.

  A crashing sound echoed through the walls. They both knew what it was. A plastic chair hitting shatterproof glass.

  Archie stood.

  More shouting.

  “Call security,” someone yelled.

  Archie went through the door and into the hall. Rosenberg was behind him, two nurses were coming around the corner. Autopilot kicked in. Through the door. Three people scrambled out past him as he entered. There were five people left in the room. The counselor, crouched, bleeding, behind an overturned desk. Two women standing frozen by the wall. Frank, still sitting in a plastic chair, knees apart, a dazed grin on his face. And the woman standing in the center of the room, hunched, crying, gripping a shard of something hard and bloody.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Archie.

  The woman’s name was Courtenay Taggart. She’d been transferred up from the ER with bandaged wrists, and had then managed to peel up a piece of Formica off the built-in bedside table in her room and had tried to finish the job. She’d been on suicide watch ever since. They’d taken everything out of her room except a mattress. Her door was never closed. A staff member sat in a chair outside her door 24-7. Archie had seen her a few times through the doorway as he passed by in the hall, lying on her bed like a child.

  She spun toward him now, and lifted the shard to the soft flesh of her neck. Apparently she’d found another source of Formica.

  “What are you doing, Courtenay?” Archie asked.

  He guessed she was about twenty. She might have looked younger if she’d been wearing civilian clothes and not green hospital pajamas. Her dyed-blond hair was pulled back. Her face was flushed sunburn-pink. She had a nice face, round cheeks, and the kind of skin that had never seen a blemish.

  She opened her mouth to say something and then Archie saw her eyes dart behind him. He turned his head and saw one of the ward orderlies moving cautiously in from the door. He was a young guy, all ninety-degree angles, strong and stocky, with hair buzzed short and a square face. Archie had seen him in the halls, pushing a mop or wheeling a meal cart.

  “Put it down,” the orderly said.

  Courtenay looked right at the orderly and pushed the piece of Formica into her neck.

  One of the women huddled near the wall gasped.

  “Get out,” Courtenay screamed at the orderly, her pretty face twisting, sending forth a spray of saliva and snot.

  “It’s okay,” the orderly said. “My name’s George. What’s yours?”

  Archie cringed. Don’t admit you don’t know her name. The orderly’s expression was earnest, palms held out and up, posture neutral. He had probably taken a seminar on hostage situations. Introduce yourself. Establish a rapport. Stall.

  “Courtenay,” Archie said, trying to distract her from the orderly. “What can I do for you?”

  She nodded toward the orderly. “I don’t want him here,” she said. A bead of blood ran down her neck.

  “Go,” Archie told the orderly, mustering all his authority. Archie looked around the room. “Everyone go,” he said. The woman who’d gasped started crying, and hugged the woman with her. The counselor crouched frozen on the floor. Frank sat in his chair, smiling.

  Archie needed to clear the room. There were too many people. He needed Courtenay calm. Angry, excited people made bad decisions. There were already too many unpredictable elements. Hostages were bad enough to manage. Mentally unstable hostages made things very dangerous.

  Archie turned to the orderly. “Trust me,” he said, lowering his voice. “I know how to do this. Get out.” The orderly glanced over at Courtenay. Then he turned back to Archie, nodded, and backed away. As he did, it was like a seal had been broken. The counselor ran for the door, gripping his bleeding arm, and the two women went out behind him. Frank didn’t move.

  The telephone started to ring.

  “Security will be here in a few minutes,” a nurse called to Archie from the door.

  It was the three of them then: Archie, Courtenay, and Frank.

  Courtenay’s nostrils flared with each breath and her knuckles were white around the shard of Formica.

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” Archie said softly. He slowly extended his hand. “Please give that to me.”

  Courtenay looked him in the eye and pushed the Formica deeper into her neck, and blood trickled down her chest.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Archie said.

  She let up on the Formica, the color returning to her hand. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m fat,” she said.

  She wasn’t fat. She wasn’t even generously proportioned. Her pajamas hung a size too big over her body. This was what had driven her to attack a counselor and jam a countertop into her neck?

  “It’s the lithium,” said Frank from his chair.

  “You’re not fat,” Archie said. “So if that’s why you’re cutting yourself with a countertop, it’s massively moronic.”

  The phone was still ringing.

  Behind him, Archie could hear chaos in the hall. People shouting. Someone crying. Psych wards were like preschools—tantrums were contagious.

  Courtenay cocked her head at Archie. “How did you do it?” she asked.

  Archie wondered if she could somehow see it on him, like he could see her bandages. “Pills,” he said.

  “Do you have kids?” she asked.

  “Two,” Archie said. “Six and eight.”

  The phone continued, insistent. It was all Archie could do not to rip it out of the wall.

  Frank started to stand up and move for it.

  “Frank, sit down,” Archie said.
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  Frank looked up, startled by Archie’s tone, and then lifted a finger at the phone. “It’s for me,” he said. “It’s my sister.”

  “It’s not important,” Archie said through clenched teeth.

  Courtenay wiped some snot off her lip with her forearm. “I cut my wrists,” she said. “But I did it wrong. I went horizontally. You’re supposed to go vertically. Did you know that?”