Stealing Faces - Michael Prescott [108]
She found her voice. “It’s not going to work. You can’t get away with it.”
“You know I can. And I will.”
He left her, shutting the door. She heard the thunk of the pneumatic bolt, a sound as final as the dropping of a casket lid. He hadn’t lied. She knew that.
Tonight, sometime after the dinner hour, when the patients were safe in their cells and the room lights had been dimmed, he would be back, and he would take her life.
48
"You’ll say I’m crazy.”
Paul Brookings smiled. “What else is new?” The smile faded as he saw the look on Shepherd’s face. “Sit down, Roy. Talk to me.”
Shepherd didn’t sit. He was restless, and he needed movement, action. He paced Brookings’ office, while outside, the late afternoon traffic crawled past on Stone Avenue. Five o’clock, the start of rush hour.
“It has to do with Kaylie McMillan,” he said.
He expected the same reaction he’d gotten from Alvarez. Gentle ribbing, and a reminder that he had higher priorities. It was his certainty that he would make a fool of himself that had kept him out of the lieutenant’s office for hours, fighting the urge to discuss the problem, until finally he’d had no choice.
But Brookings didn’t challenge him. He said only, “What about her?”
“It’s not my case, right?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, I’ve never been much for rhetoric, so why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind, and why I ought to doubt your sanity.”
The lieutenant said it lightly, with just the right blend of humor and understanding, and Shepherd knew he had underestimated the man.
He shouldn’t have. He should have remembered how Paul Brookings had been there for him during the hellish days when Ginnie was hospitalized, and the still worse months after her death.
At the hospital Brookings had visited Shepherd and Ginnie every day. Twice he had stayed up nearly all night with Shepherd, the two of them sitting together in an alcove near a noisy freight elevator. Shepherd talking aimlessly, the lieutenant doing the work of listening.
The morning Ginnie died. Shepherd had called Brookings, waking him in the dawn twilight. Brookings had handled most of the details—paperwork, funeral arrangements—while Shepherd drifted in a mist of grief.
Later, there had been fishing trips, long walks, dinners at Brookings’ house where Paul’s wife, Chloris, served homemade, multicourse meals and soft music played.
Brookings had nursed Shepherd through the hardest part of his life. Of course he was the right person, the only person, for Shepherd to turn to now.
“Okay,” Shepherd said. “Here it is. I talked to Chuck Wheelihan over in Graham County a few hours ago. He told me some things that got me thinking. I don’t know why, really. It’s nothing specific. But I can’t seem to let it go.”
“Not sure I follow you. The woman’s under arrest. As I understand it, no one’s ever disputed the fact that she killed her husband.”
“No.”
“And she accused her psychiatrist of being the White Mountains Killer. So she’s clearly delusional. Right?”
Shepherd hesitated, and Brookings pursed his lips.
“Oh,” the lieutenant said. “You think maybe she’s not delusional.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far.” Shepherd felt himself backing away from his suspicions, which seemed so obscure, so insubstantial, now that they were on the verge of being stated aloud. “I don’t know what to think,” he added lamely.
Brookings was quiet for a moment. He played with a stapler on his desk. On the street below, a car’s horn squalled briefly.
“This isn’t like you, Roy,” Brookings said finally. “When a case is cleared, you let it go. What’s different now?”
“It just feels incomplete. But hell, you’re right. I’m probably just getting carried away.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Forget it, okay? Forget I was even here.”
He took a step toward the door. Brookings stopped him with a command. “Hold on.”
Shepherd turned to look at him. The lieutenant clicked the stapler again, then raised his head to meet Shepherd’s gaze.
“It’s Ginnie,” Brookings said softly, “isn’t it?”
“What’s she got to