"Crime Spells" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenberg Martin H, Coleman Loren L, Weldon Phaedra M., Resnick Mike, Stackpole...)

IV

“… What you’d expect after extensive blood loss,” Kay was saying. “Official cause of death is cerebral anoxia secondary to exsanguination.”

“No surprises there.” I stood beneath the ER’s breezeway off Washington Circle. Freezing my ass off, but you can’t use a cell in a hospital. Messes up the machinery. The sun had staggered up to lighten the clouds to pewter, and the traffic was picking up. “Anything else?”

“Just interesting: MacAndrews served in Vietnam. Army, Third Brigade. He even had this funky tattoo on his bicep. Rollins could run down his service record if you want.”

“And that’s interesting… how?” But then I answered my own question. “The DVD.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

Hunh. The disk was being looked at by the computer guy to see if he could clean things up. “Kay, you at your computer? Can you Google…” I spelled the name. “Check for family.”

She was silent a moment. Then: “Don’t tell me Preston Wylde’s involved.”

“I don’t know yet. What’d you get?”

“Hang on.” Sound of typing. “Lot of hits, but… here we go. Just says that he’s got two daughters. No wife mentioned. No names.”

That tallied. Guys like Preston Wylde might not want too much personal information out there. “Try Sarah. Same last name.”

More typing. “Hunh. Well, this is interesting. She comes up as faculty at the medical school. Her specialty is transcultural psychiatry. She’s been all over, most recently a couple of years in Thailand and Cambodia researching cacodemonomania…”

I thought of that Asian family. That Ψ. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know. I’m a pathologist. Hang on… hunh.”

“You keep doing that.”

“Well, that’s because it’s hunh. Cacodemonomania is the delusion of being possessed by a demon.”

This time I was quiet. My mind jumped to something that most cops would find well-nigh certifiable. Maybe if I’d been more open to possibilities, though, Adam might still be alive.

See, I’d investigated an angel.

It was complicated.

And I know what I heard out of Dickert’s mouth. And what Sarah Wylde said… “Anything else?”

“Well, there’s a pretty funky paper entitled ‘Green is for Goblin: Exorcism in Buddhist Magic.’ ”

I closed my eyes-and saw Wylde’s own glittering, emerald eyes.

Kay: “Is there something you’re looking for in particular?”

Yeah. Try Googling Wylde and witch and Satan. “I don’t know. That’s okay. Thanks, Kay.” I disconnected, then dialed Rollins. He answered and I heard background noise: men’s voices. A phone ringing. “Where are you?”

“In the office, finishing paper. I hate paper. What’s up?”

I filled him in, then said, “Run Dickert through the system, see if you get anything.”

“And he’s connected…? You’ll notice the ellipsis.”

“Well, he’s an asshole.”

“The world’s full of them.”

“So I’m betting there’s something.”

“And it connects…?”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

“So observant. You must be a detective.”

“So will you run him?”

“Okay, okay. What about our case?”

“I still haven’t had a chance to talk to the girl. I was going to interview her now.”

“Wait for me. Give me twenty minutes.”

“This is Washington.”

“Forty.”

“That’ll do.” I closed the phone and ducked back into the ER.

Things had more or less gotten back to normal except Gerber was nowhere in sight and Dickert was in leather restraints, snoring from whatever he’d been given. Someone had also taken soap and water to him. Didn’t really improve his looks. A walrus in a flimsy hospital gown that had hiked up in unfortunate places. Obligatory biker tattoos: a ring of barbed wire around his left bicep that, with gravity and a couple years, would end up a bracelet; an American flag on the right. He had a thing about skulls: skull on fire, Jolly Roger centered in an ace of spades peeping from an ass cheek (too much information!), Grateful Dead skull haloed with red roses.

I hoped Wylde pressed charges. There was just something about Dickert I didn’t like, and it wasn’t about the t-shirt or that he was a drunk and a bully. His tattoos were unoriginal, but you couldn’t throw a guy in jail for his taste in tattoos.

Just… something. That voice, for starters.

And the one in my head…

Oh, don’t go there. I’d just about convinced myself the whole thing was stress.

The medical student sat on a stool next to a surgical resident who was stitching Dickert’s scalp back together. “Your sister around?” I asked the student.

If she was surprised that I’d put it together, she didn’t show it. “Zoe,” she said, and stuck out her hand. We shook; her grip was firm. “Sarah’s with the Chouns.” Zoe tilted her head toward the bay where the Asian family was hidden behind a drawn curtain. “She might be a while. They’re family friends.”

“She okay?”

“Sure. I don’t think she’s going to press charges, though.”

“That’s a shame. And here I was hoping.”

“The guy had an idiosyncratic reaction to alcohol. It happens. Once their BAL goes down, they’re pretty reasonable people. Well… maybe not him.”

“Your sister always take risks?”

“Yes,” the surgical resident said, without turning around. “Rushing in where angels fear to tread. Can’t tell Sarah anything and never could, if you listen to the attendings. On the other hand, can’t tell Zoe anything either. I pity the chief resident of whatever specialty she ends up in.”

“A fan club,” I said to Zoe.

“Part of the family charm. We go all sorts of places.” She mock-punched the resident. “Harry’s just worried that I’ll end up his intern for his first big case.”

“Are you kidding?” Harry tied off, snipped. “When that day comes, and if you’re very, very good, I’ll let you staple the skin.”

“So generous.”

I debated a half second about waiting for Wylde-to ask her… what? Hey, whoa, nifty parlor trick. Do all the witches in your coven do that? But then I spotted Rollins trundling in, and I really did have work.

“Hey,” Rollins said. He was open faced and big in a solid, apple pie, Midwest kind of way. Last person in the world you’d peg as a computer geek. “Computer guy thinks he might have something. I’d have given it a shot, but I was doing paper.”

“My, my, everyone is working hard and on a Saturday morning. What’s the story on Dickert?”

Rollins fished out some flavor of PDA and started tapping. “Mostly small stuff. Couple DUIs. A breaking and entering kicked down to illegal trespass, along with two assault charges. All three were in connection with a girlfriend. Charges were dropped after the girlfriend didn’t show to testify. Got an address out in Springfield, and a couple rental properties in Arlington. Looks like that’s how he makes a living, renting out the houses and general all-around handyman.”

Odd he lived out there, given his reaction to the Chouns. Route 50 near I-495 was wall-to-wall Korean, Vietnamese, Thai. “What about military? He said he’s a vet. Well, implied.”

“Drafted in ’65, did two tours. Army. Third Brigade, Twenty-fifth Infantry Division.”

Hmmm. “Two tours? He volunteered?”

“Dunno. Honorable discharge in ’69 and then nothing until the DUIs start up. You’re looking for…?”

“Nothing.” I let it go. Dickert was trouble, but a brigade was a big place, and I had plenty to deal with.

Lily Hopkins looked very young and very scared. A trace of baby fat under her chin. Maybe thirteen. But there also were purple smudges in the hollows of her cheeks and beneath her eyes, and she had that kind of haunted, hunted look you saw in runaways.

“I don’t know what happened. I just… it was like I was dreaming. Only I couldn’t move at first. I almost couldn’t breathe. Like someone sitting on my chest. Then it was kind of like… You know how you get in a crowded room and people are shoving you and shoving you? That’s what it was like. I got shoved aside.” A quick flick of her eyes to my face and then away. “There was somebody else.”

“Somebody. Not something?”

Shake of the head. “A girl. She talked about her mother and an aunt.”

“You heard a voice?”

Really hesitant now. “N-nooo. Know how you hear your own voice in your head sometimes? When you’re reading? Like that. Her voice but not really talking to me. I don’t think she was American.”

Rollins and I looked at each other. “How do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean, she didn’t sound American. Like she thought about this guy. I think he was… you know, she… was doing what Mackie made me do. Only either his name was like a joke in her head or she really didn’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“In my head, she said he was Call-Me-Bob. You know, the old joke. Guy shakes your hand and you say, ‘Lily’ and he says, ‘Call me Bob.’ Like that. And she mentioned a place named Poy… Polypett or something, and said a bunch of words… yama and mutra… stuff I didn’t get.”

I snagged on mutra. Like Wylde… “Tell me the rest.”

She did. It gave me a little chill, the way she described a presence residing in her mind, watching, waiting. Of being yanked around like a doll and commanded to do a horrible thing.

I couldn’t help but think of Wylde.

I expected to see Gerber waiting when Rollins and I pushed through the curtain. But he wasn’t.

“Detective Saunders?” Dr. Wylde offered her hand. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you properly.”

I liked her grip: firm but not overly so. I introduced Rollins, then asked, “How’s the lip?” Actually I could see how the lip was: swollen.

She touched the knot with slender fingers. “I think the plastic surgeons were disappointed. My dignity’s hurt more than anything else. We usually don’t have situations like that get so out of hand here. Anyway.” She held up a chart. “Ms. Hopkins has been transferred to the psychiatry service for evaluation. Dr. Gerber will consult, if needed. He said that he hadn’t had a chance to go over the EEG results with you. So.”

We followed her to the nurses’ station. A quick glance at Dickert’s bay-empty now, I saw. Ten to one, his ample butt was parked on his Harley. Ten to one, he didn’t use a helmet.

Good. The world needs more organ donors.

Wylde flipped pages. “Okay, here are the EEG findings.”

A lot of scratchy scribbles. “What am I looking at?”

“We do a routine run to get a baseline, and then we introduce various types of stimulation to evoke a response. For example, here, you see normal brain activity and then, with photic stimulation-light-there’s activity in the occipital lobe, where visual information is processed.”

“Okay. So?”

“So, everything’s going fine, with no abnormalities until… right… here.” She stretched past to point with a pen, and I saw the vivid scroll of a tattoo at her right wrist, a weird line of script.

Angelina Jolie.

What?

Before I could figure out what my brain was trying to tell me, she rolled on: “Time index is plus thirty minutes. Where the waves are faster, closer together? That’s called beta rhythm. You see beta in REM sleep, when we dream. But she wasn’t asleep at the time. This rhythm just appeared.”

“Was she having a seizure?”

“No. If she’d been asleep and then awakened, I would’ve said sleep paralysis. In REM sleep, we’re all partially paralyzed. It’s called REM atonia. Perfectly normal. In sleep paralysis, the subject awakens, but the paralysis persists. Many subjects experience quite vivid hallucinations. In some cases, sleep paralysis will transition to what we call lucid dreaming. For all intents and purposes, the person is conscious, but the brain is still in REM sleep. If you listen to Lily, she was in deep sleep, and then she awakened, convinced there was someone else in her mind. This EEG records REM breakthrough into the conscious state, which you might interpret as a lucid dream. But I don’t think so. Here, it’s as if there are two brains. Two people. One’s Ms. Hopkins,” she indicated a set of tracings, “and the other’s not. Like a split brain: two completely independent patterns, but her CT is stone-cold normal.”

“Was she aware of it when this happened?”

“Yes. She said someone else came in.” Wylde paused. “Not-Lily was how she put it.”

“Is she…?”

“Crazy? No.”

I said nothing. My eyes dropped to the EEG again, those two independent brains occupying the same space at the same time. Then my eyes snagged on the initials on the front sheet. One set was P.G.: Phillip Gerber.

The other: S.W.

She said someone else came in.

I said, “When did you come into the EEG suite, Doctor?”

Rollins said, “What?”

Her expression was unreadable, though I saw her pulse bounding in her neck. She opened her mouth to reply, but Rollins’s pager chirped. “Computer guy,” he said, heading for the exit. “I’ll let him know we’re on our way.”

I waited until Rollins had gone and then looked back at Wylde. Just came out with it. “You’re Preston Wylde’s daughter.”

“It is an uncommon last name. My father’s always tried to maintain a distance between his professional life and home, but…” She shook her head. “Things have a way of coming to roost.”

An odd statement. I let it hang.

She said, “Is the fact that my father works for the FBI a problem?”

“No. But I can’t imagine it’s easy being the daughter of a famous profiler, especially given the men your father tracks down.”

“Demon hunter is what the press prefers.”

“I don’t get anything near that sexy when the press talks about me.”

“Maybe you need to get sexier then.” She checked her watch. “I have to go. Was there anything else?”

“Yes. What was that, Doctor? With Dickert? And don’t tell me nothing. I know what I saw, damn it.”

Her face was still as smooth glass. “What do you believe happened, Detective? What do you think you saw?”

Not what, who . And I believe you stopped him somehow. I believe you command things the rest of us only have nightmares about.

And does it have anything to do with what’s happening to me ?

When I still said nothing, only then did her expression shift: a tiny blur, as if she were a projection going briefly out of focus, the pixels scattering, then coalescing around the edges until she was sharp edged, like something scissored out of black paper and superimposed upon a perfectly white background. She was almost too real.

“I’ve got work.” She turned to leave.

For no reason I could think of, I said, “Dr. Wylde, how is the old man? Mr. Choun?”

Her back stiffened just the tiniest bit, and when she turned her face was midway to rearranging itself into something close to neutrality. But I saw the emotions chase through-and there was grief, most of all.

“He’s about to give up the ghost,” she said.

“That’s an odd way of putting it, Doctor.”

“I guess it depends on your point of view. One thing, Detective, about my father? What they call him?”

This was not what I expected. “Yes?”

“Sometimes, a name isn’t all about sex. Sometimes, Detective, the truth is right under your nose.”