Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [122]
She shook her whole body, as if trying to cast off her worries. “I told you before that I had no contact with my brother’s patients.”
“Yes.”
“I was being less than honest. In fact, I tend to his appointment book and often admit patients for their visits.” “Why did you lie to us?” “Because he told me to.”
“Why?”
She looked at him, her eyes anguished. “I don’t know—when I asked him, he told me to mind my own business.”
“And why would he do that?”
She bit her lip until a small pinpoint of blood appeared—she was clearly struggling with her conscience.
“Because,” she said, the words wrenching themselves out of her, “I am certain he was having … relations … with one of his patients.”
“I see. And who was it?”
But even before she spoke, Lee knew the answer.
“Ana Watkins.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
Patiently you wait for me to come home to you—with such care I’ve collected you, my only true friends, beautiful and pure in your shiny glass bowl.
Caleb opened the door softly so as not to disturb his father. His treasure was tucked away carefully in his coat pocket, wrapped in plastic to keep it pure until he could add it to his collection. He closed the door behind him and tiptoed across the living room to the back bedroom. His keys rattled as he took them from his pocket—his hands were trembling a little. Sliding the key into the lock, he gave a quick twist and pushed. The door slid open on its oiled hinges, revealing his sanctuary, his secret lair, his holiest of holies.
He took a step into the room and closed the door behind him. It would not do to let his father wander in here, so he kept the door locked at all times. No one must come in here—this room was for him and his treasures only, so he could admire them at his leisure. It was his little secret.
He pulled the tightly wrapped parcel from his coat pocket and carefully undid the rubber band around the plastic bag. Holding his hand out flat, he slid the contents of the bag onto his bare palm, shivering at the feel of them—soft and smooth and wet as eels. He examined them—each pair was different, and the more he collected the more he came to appreciate the subtle variations—the singular shades of blue, or brown, or—his favorite—hazel.
He looked at the pair in his hand. They were blue, but not a deep ocean blue—more of an aquamarine blue, with a greenish tinge to them. They were on the large side, and if he looked closely enough he could see tiny flecks of gold at the edges of the irises. Yes, these were nice, very nice—definitely a worthy specimen to keep the others company.
He sighed with pleasure. Carefully he lifted the lid of the glass jar on the middle shelf of the bookcase and added his trophies to the ones floating in the jar. Come to me, my pretty ones, my little jewels, my windows to the soul. They stared out at him—perhaps they were severed now from their souls, or maybe—just maybe—the souls lived behind them still.
He heard his father coughing in the other room—a bitter, grating sound. He replaced the lid on the jar and slid it back into the bookshelf. He would go to his father now, safe in the knowledge that he had yet another secret to keep from him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
“Oh, Dr. Campbell, do you think my brother is capable of—of murder?”
Charlotte Perkins stood in front of the French window overlooking the street, her damp hair plastered to her head, awkward in ill-fitting clothes, hands hanging at her sides in surrender.
“What do you think?” Lee said.
“Until now I would have said no, but then I would not have thought him capable of desecrating the doctor–patient relationship either. To say nothing of the … union … between us.” She looked at Lee with pleading eyes. “Before you judge us too harshly, let me tell you that there was never any question of our having children. Of course, now we are too old, but it was never a possibility in the first place.”
Lee didn’t ask for details.
“So you see, what we did—who we were—caused no harm to anyone else.”
“What about you? Did it cause harm to you?”
She drew