Sibs F Paul Wilson Page 12

  B. At least two of these personalities or personality states recurrently take full control of the person's behavior.

  So why was he reading this again? Hell, why was he even here! It was Happy Hour on Friday. He should have been heading for one of his usual weekend haunts, like Nomura's, huddling with the regular crowd around the sushi bar, drinking Kirin and scarfing down California rolls. But he had no desire for that scene tonight. What was wrong with him?

  It was that woman, that Kelly Wade. Her tortured face before she went out the window still hovered about him.

  At least now he had an explanation. The second personality, the one named Ingrid, was the one that had picked up Phil and him. Ingrid had been the sexual acrobat. And then for one reason or another, Kelly had come back. She'd been shocked and repulsed by the situation in which she suddenly found herself. Must've figured out that her other half had got her into it. Right. The Jekyll half had suddenly awakened in the middle of one of Hyde's orgies and it scared the shit out of her. So she panicked and started bouncing off the walls looking for a way out. Unfortunately she found the window before she found the door. She probably didn't know the window was twelve stories up.

  Or did she? Had she seen that window as a way out of more than just the hotel room?

  Ed sighed and leaned back and rubbed his weary eyes. Whatever the case, he wasn't responsible. He and his brother had merely accompanied "Ingrid" up to her room for a little dirty fun between three consenting adults. What happened after that was not their fault.

  So why do I feel so damn guilty?

  He looked up and saw the librarians going from table to table, shooing everybody out. Closing time. Ed left the journals where they were and headed for the street. He hunched his shoulders against the icy wind as he pushed his way through the crowds clustering on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street.

  Getting dark. Friday night in the Big City. The tunnel rats and bridge brats from Jersey and Long Island were already making their entrance despite the cold. He studied some of the bright, eager, excited teenage faces, watched them puff their cigarettes, trying to look cool, look tough, trying to look like real New Yorkers but giving themselves away immediately with their Hard Rock Cafe sweatshirts. Ed realized with a start that he had twenty years on them. He wondered if he'd ever looked that young, or felt that alive.

  Feeling old, he hailed a cab and pondered the guilt question as he rode home. By the time he stepped into his apartment he had given up on it. What did it matter? The woman was dead.

  He went immediately to the kitchen and poured himself a stiff Absolut Citron on the rocks. He was beginning to really like this stuff, actually looking forward to it, and that concerned him a little. Sipping slowly, he went over to the entertainment center that took up most of the inner wall of the living room. He browsed through his CD collection. He had a new multi-disk player and had bought a new pair of trimline speakers with fabulous bass, but could find nothing he wanted to hear. He turned on the TV. He had a built-in rear projection model with a 48-inch screen and full cable hook-up. Between MSG, ESPN and Sports Channel, there had to be something diverting on.

  Ah. The Knicks were on. He sat down, figuring to lose himself in bitching about why they weren't a better team.

  It didn't work.

  Kelly Wade was there, standing next to him, naked, looking down at him like he was some sort of roach.

  Ed closed his eyes. Maybe it wasn't all guilt. Maybe he wasn't feeling guilty so much as feeling dirty. He'd been humping a mental case and he'd liked it. Sure, he hadn't known then, but he knew now, and he still liked it. He saw her blond hair, her equally blond bush, the black garter belt against her creamy white skin, the tiny navel, the curve of her hip, her questing mouth…

  He wanted her again!

  But not just her, not just Ingrid. He wanted Kelly, too. He wanted them both, the good girl and the dirty girl, madonna and whore all rolled into one.

  Ed shook his head.

  What a pervo you're turning out to be.

  Which made him feel even guiltier. This was becoming a fucking merry-go-round.

  And the merry-go-round carried him toward the second twin, Kara. Wednesday night she'd looked almost as tortured as her sister. And when Ed had mentioned child abuse, she'd exploded and started talking about her father.

  This was heavy shit.

  He went over and poured himself another. Child abuse. What a world. He was glad he'd never had kids. He looked around the apartment. What did he have? He stared at the elegantly matched, cool-toned furnishings which so perfectly complemented the aloof, distant, abstract paintings, at the racks of electronic gadgetry that surrounded him. He was going to hit the big four-oh soon and what did he really have? A good income, yes, but from a career that had plateaued five years ago; no wife, no family, and an apartment that was more like a Sharper Image catalog than a home. Just a short while ago all of this had mattered so much. The apartment had seemed so full. Now it seemed barren, deserted.

  Empty even when he was here. Especially when he was here.

  Time for a change.

  Right. Easy to say. Could he change?

  Yes. Because he wanted to. The incident in the Plaza had changed his perspective. On everything. As if some inner clock had begun tolling childhood's end. It was time to get involved in something besides finding that latest hot bistro on Columbus Avenue. Time to grow up. Time to begin sharing his life. He was aware of a growing need, a deep yearning for someone else, not just to share his apartment, but his life.

  Maybe Kara Wade was the answer. She needed somebody, he could tell. And he was drawn to her. Maybe he should concentrate on her. He could help her. Really help. Maybe she would be drawn to him as a result. That would be nice. But even if it didn't turn out that way, maybe he could do something for her. Something that mattered.

  February 14

  5:42 A.M.

  Kara awoke in her own bed in her own house with the predawn light filtering through the frost on her own bedroom window. It was great to be back home.

  She hopped out of bed and padded across the cold bare planks of the floor to look out at the farm. Her farm. She rubbed the rime away and watched the rows of scotch pines on the south slope taking shape in the growing light. She opened the window and thrust her head and shoulders out into the cold, still air.

  The morning was hers. For these few minutes she owned it. No one was stirring except her. You couldn't do this in New York. She'd tried when she was there. She'd stayed up all night and she'd risen before the sun, but she'd never had the city to herself. Before the last of the all-night party people had gone home, the city's swarms of delivery trucks were up and out and clattering along the streets.

  But here at the farm the morning was all hers. And someday, when she paid it off, the farm would be all hers as well. She hungered for that day.

  She closed the window and rubbed her hands together, glad she had the weekend to whip this place into shape and get a little work done on her book. Come Monday morning Jill would go back to school and Kara back to her job at the hospital. It was time to put the ugliness of Kelly's death behind them and get their lives back on track.

  She glanced over at the Apple II+ on the writing table. She had bought it second hand as a word processor for her book and it was calling to her now. And well it should. The publisher had refused to authorize an extension of her deadline. They had the book scheduled for next spring's line up and didn't want to change their plans. She had to get cracking.

  But she'd been having trouble with the chapter on abortion. Intellectually, she was pro-choice. Emotionally, she was torn. She couldn't help but think that if she and Rob had ended differently—if he had beat her or otherwise mistreated her—she might have had an abortion rather than carry and deliver their child. And then Jill, wonderful Jill, would never have existed. A horrifying thought.

  But that didn't explain the conceptual problems she was having with the chapter. She had been deeply
disturbed by the latest statistics from India: out of every 8,000 abortions in Bombay, only one of the fetuses was male. The Indian women were having amniocentesis, and if the child was female they were aborting it.

  Kara could see that as obstetrical advances filtered down to the over-the-counter level—now there were home pregnancy tests, and soon there would be oral abortifacients, and perhaps even a home amnio kit—the concept of abortion on demand became a two-edged sword. In India, daughters were expensive to marry off, so people were deciding by the thousands not to have daughters. What would a trend like that in the Western countries do to the woman's movement? And what would be the next to disappear? Freckles? Green eyes? Short stature? Mousy hair color? Where would it end?

  Maybe that was the approach to take—Where do we draw the line!

  Kara was suddenly excited. If she got to work right away, she could get a page done before Jill—

  "Mom! Mom!"

  Jill came racing into the room and threw her arms around Kara's waist and hugged her. She was trembling.

  "Jill, honey! What's the matter?"

  "Where were you last night, Mom? Where'd you go?"

  "I didn't go anywhere."

  "Yes, you did! I came looking for you last night and you weren't here!"

  "Don't be silly, of course I was. You must have been dreaming."

  Kara looked down at Jill. She was genuinely frightened. She looked as if she was about to cry.

  "But I wasn't! I thought I heard a noise and I got scared, so I came in to see you and you weren't here! I called and called but you wouldn't answer me, and I looked all over for you but you weren't here! I was so scared! I thought you'd left me!"

  "I was right there in bed all the time. Tell me what you did after that."

  "I went back to my bed and hid under the covers. I was crying. I… think I fell asleep again."

  "And then you woke up and now I'm here. It was a nightmare, Jill. You only dreamt you were looking for me." She hugged her daughter tightly against her. "I'd never go anywhere without you. You know that don't you?"

  Jill nodded. "But it seemed so real!"

  "I know." She kissed her. "The worst ones always do. But it's over now, and I'm here, so why don't you get into your robe and we'll go make breakfast."

  "Can we have scrambled eggs?"

  "Sure."

  "Good! I want to try my chopsticks on them!"

  As Jill trotted off, Kara sat on the edge of the bed and fished around for her slippers. The mention of the chopsticks brought Rob to mind. He was another reason she was glad to be back at the farm. She'd spent most of the week holding her breath, praying he wouldn't see the resemblance between himself and Jill. How could he miss it? But he had, thank God.

  Well there was no sense in worrying about what might have happened. Right now, she had breakfast to cook and a book to write.

  She found her slippers and was about to slip them on when she caught a glimpse of the sole of her left foot.

  It was filthy.

  She checked the right and found the same. The bottoms of both of her feet were covered with dirt. Not house dirt, but outside dirt.

  Yard dirt.

  But she'd showered right before bed last night. Her feet had been clean, she was sure of it. This wasn't possible, unless…

  A chill stole over her. Jill's dream. What if it hadn't been a dream? What if Jill had really come looking for her and she hadn't been here? But where had she gone? Outside? Barefoot? That was crazy!

  Crazy. Dr. Gates had said to let him know if anything strange happened—blackouts and things like that. Did he mean sleepwalking, too? Kara had never done that before. At least that she knew.

  What's happening to me?

  Probably nothing. Probably just a reaction to the stresses of the past week. But if anything like this happened again, she was going to be on the phone to Dr. Gates immediately. As much as she disliked the man, he had a head start on any other shrink as far as this case was concerned.

  As Kara put her slippers on and reached for her robe, she realized that the day had suddenly changed. The morning was no longer as bright. The buoyancy she'd felt on arising had vanished, replaced by a leaden weight of uncertainty. The Apple no longer called to her. She sensed it was going to be a very long day. And an even longer night.

  ▼

  4:20 P.M.

  "You're spending an awful lot of time on this jumper, Harris."

  Rob had been expecting this. He was surprised he'd been allowed to carry it this far. But the time had come and now he was sitting across the desk from Detective Lieutenant James Mooney, chief of Midtown North's detective squad, readying an explanation. Mooney's office was a walled-off cubicle furnished with a standard issue green metal desk. He had a window, but like all the other windows in the precinct house, it was covered with steel mesh. Late afternoon sunlight strained through the mesh.

  Mooney himself was a balding, jowly, overweight bulldog who usually had half a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth. He seemed tough until he began speaking—he had a tendency to whine. But he did manage to keep the precinct's detective squad under tight control and yet remain approachable.

  Rob had pulled the weekend along with Mooney. The lieutenant liked to use his Saturdays on duty to close up all the open files that he could.

  Rob said, "There's a possibility she didn't go out that window on her own. She may have had a push."

  "Forensics doesn't think so."

  "Forensics has been wrong before."

  Mooney removed the cigar to sip from his coffee mug, the contents of which had come from the bottle in his bottom drawer. Specks of ash fell from the cigar's cold tip onto the manila folder that held the paperwork of Kelly's case.

  "I read your report, Harris. You've got one very disturbed girl here, under psychiatric care, on schnozz, who jumps naked through a twelfth floor window from a room where Forensics says there's no sign of a struggle. The M.E. says her body shows no signs of a fight, except for one love bite on her shoulder. We've got people with their heads blown off waiting for their perps to be found. Don't waste your time with this one. Close it!"

  That was precisely what Rob was trying to avoid.

  "I think we're missing something here, lieu," he said. "I've got a gut feeling that this psychiatrist is involved somehow."

  "Anything concrete?"

  "No, but—"

  "Then close it."

  "One more week, lieu. That's all I want. I'll squeeze it in between the DiGilio and Stern cases."

  Mooney's eyes narrowed as he looked at Rob.

  "You got something personal in this?"

  "Nah," Rob said, leaning back in his chair and hoping he was convincing. Mooney didn't like his cops getting into cases where they were personally involved. "It just interests me, you know? Ever have a case that got under your skin and made you itch?"

  Mooney's eyes got even narrower. His whine became more pronounced.

  "You ain't thinking of writing a book or any shit like that, are you?"

  Rob laughed. "Hey, lieu, you've read my reports! What do you think?"

  Mooney stuck the cigar back in his mouth and smiled.

  "Yeah. You've got a point there. But Christ, every other guy in the department seems to be writing a book!"

  Rob nodded. Ever since Bill Caunitz, a former detective with Mooney's rank and position, began hitting the best-seller lists and appearing on Good Morning America, a lot of guys were trying their hand at fiction, but not with much success.

  "Give me another week, lieu. If I can't prove foul play by then I'll close it myself."

  "You'd better. And don't come back next week with some sky blue theory. I want hard stuff or we close. Got it?"

  "Got it."

  Rob knew Mooney was hoping he'd find nothing. The lieutenant liked grounders—open and shut cases. If Kelly Wade's case remained a suicide it would be closed and forgotten. But if it became reclassified as a murder it stayed open until solved. Unsolved murde
rs were never closed, and that could mean filing semiannual DD5 Supplementary Complaint Reports into eternity.

  Rob took the file and returned to his own desk in the squad room. It was the same color and style as Mooney's, only older and more dented. A few phone message slips on his blotter. None from Connie. He wondered why he felt relieved. Another love affair down the tubes. It was getting to be a habit.

  He picked up the sheet with the notes he'd made on that lawyer yesterday and tossed it out. Ed Bannion checked out okay: a tax attorney with no record. Still… one nervous guy. Rob uncrumpled the sheet and slipped it into the back of Kelly's file, then went over the new information he'd dug up on Dr. Gates—or rather, Lazlo Gati.

  It hadn't been easy. Little Lazlo's immigration papers said he was seven years old when he arrived in the United States. He took the oath of citizenship at age 21 and had his name changed to Lawrence Gates that same year. Beyond that, Rob had come up blank. Then he'd remembered Doc Winters' passing remark about an older brother and sister who'd died in West Virginia a while back. A department contact at a Wheeling newspaper faxed him a couple of articles. The first to come through was three years old and concerned Marta Gati's death in a fire that gutted her house. The circumstances were deemed suspicious, especially since the young handyman and the maid had disappeared. Interesting, but it told Rob nothing about Dr. Gates. Then another article came through, a few years older than the first, concerning the death of the senior Gati sibling, Karl, an independent mine owner who suffered a fatal heart attack.

  Rob hit paydirt in the second article. It contained an interview with Karl's sister, Marta, wherein she chronicled the family history. A fascinating story.

  The Gati family had run one of Hungary's major mining concerns since the turn of the century. Somehow, through bribery and political influence, they managed to survive the Nazi occupation with all six members alive and the family fortune hidden away nearly intact. When the communists took over, however, they decided to flee. They gathered up all the gold and jewels they had squirreled away before the war and headed for the border. Mama and Papa Gati sent the kids across first. They were supposed to follow soon after but they never showed up. The children later learned that they had been captured and shot. Karl, the oldest of the three brothers at twenty, took over as head of the family. There was no opposition. Lazlo was just a boy at the time, and Marta and the other brother, Gabor, both suffered from unspecified but apparently disabling birth defects. The article mentioned that Marta was confined to a wheelchair.)