The Dead and the Dying Page 25
"I'm not sure there's any other hotel that'd want to," I reply, putting my phone away. "Thank you, Mr. Garland. You've been very helpful." Turning, I limp over to the door, just as a young couple come in from the garden.
"Is this the murder hotel?" the girl asks, staring around in wide-eyed amazement.
"Sure," I reply, pointing at the hotel owner. "That's the guy you need to talk to. He can tell you all about it."
Leaving them to get on with their factually inaccurate tour, I limp out of the building and down to the street. There's no doubt in my mind that Dr. Alice Huston was the real driving force behind Paula Clarke's supposed reign of terror, but it's also clear that the Huston's far more dangerous than I'd anticipated. In fact, I think she might be responsible for all the recent deaths, which means I've got one more job to do before I go to the hospital and get ready to go under the knife.
Joanna Mason
I have to sit in my goddamn freezing car for hours, but finally I spot Dr. Huston's secretary leaving the building. I've been here for hours, and now that it's getting dark, I'm starting to realize that Dr. Huston herself must be just about the only person left on the campus. I can even see a light in her office window, with the tell-tale flickering blue of a computer screen.
I glance at my phone. I should really call Dawson and get some back-up, but I've always liked doing things my own way. If anyone else was with me, I'd have to explain myself and fill in paperwork and all that crap. Reaching into my glove compartment, I pull out my gun and double-check that it's loaded before slipping it into my holster and slowly, painfully, getting out of the car.
"You're an idiot," says Dawson, his voice ringing in my ear. I'm sure he's at home right now with his darling wife Elaine, and that's where he belongs. This is my crap to deal with.
"Big news," I mutter.
"You can't defend yourself," I imagine him saying. "You can't do a damn thing, Jo. What if she makes a run for it? You can't chase her."
"I'm armed."
"I've never known such a dumb-ass," he says. "You're so smart, Jo, but at other times, you do really, really stupid things."
"If it wasn't for me, this bitch would be getting away with the whole thing." I pause for a moment as the pain punches a hole through my gut; taking a deep breath, I wait as it eventually passes. "That's the difference between you and me," I continue through gritted teeth. "I get things done. Anyway, you can't be smart without being dumb too."
"That doesn't even make sense."
Smiling, I can't help but wish that Dawson was here. I guess it wouldn't have hurt to have brought him in on this, but at the same time, I want to see his face when I tell him that I managed to solve his case for him.
Limping through the shadows, I eventually reach the building's main door and hit the intercom button. Moments later, the night-watchman's crackling voice asks who I am, and I flash my badge at the camera. Once I'm inside, I limp to the stairs and start the long climb up to Dr. Huston's office on the third floor. The last thing I want is to give her a heads-up that anyone's in the building, so I figure it's best if I don't use the elevator.
By the time I get to to the floor with Dr. Huston's office, my hip hurts so much, I'm not even sure I can continue. I pause for a moment, doubled-over with pain as I try to get my breath back. It feels so bad, I'm sweating, but I know I have to keep going. There's no way I can go into hospital and leave this bitch running around free, not after what she did to those men, and what she did to Paula Clarke, and - hell - what she did to me. People often tell me that I seem admirably calm, but right now, I'm filled with anger.
Making my way along the corridor, I realize after a moment that I can hear the sound of a video being played in Dr. Huston's office. As I get closer to the door, I start to recognize the voice in the video, and I shudder as I think back to those moments when Paula was cutting into my pelvis. I guess I was right after all: the camera was recording, and Dr. Huston grabbed the tape after I got free, which means she was there all along.
"At least let me know if I'm right," my voice says, sounding tinny as it comes from the speakers on Dr. Huston's laptop. "Gazade always faced his victims at the end. If you can't do that, you're nothing like him. You're not even close. I need to see your face, Paula. You owe me that. I dare you to look me in the eye." There's a pause. "Look at me!" I continue, my voice sounding angrier than I remember. "Look me in the fucking eyes!"
Reaching out to the door handle, I feel a shiver of recognition as I remember the feeling of Paula's cold finger on my scar.
"Look at me!" my voice continues. "Don't just -" Suddenly there's the sound of the bone-saw, and I hear myself screaming. It's a shocking moment, not only because of the ferocity of my pained cries, but also because I swear I remember myself being calmer. Unfortunately, I guess I screamed like a bitch, which in itself is rather embarrassing. Still, as I quietly turn the handle and push the door open, I have to steel myself against the sound of the saw grinding through my bone.
Stepping into the room, I see that Dr. Huston is sitting with her back to me, watching the video on a projector screen. I stare at the image for a moment, before reaching into my holster and taking out my gun. I want to blow that bitch's head off, but I know I have to do things by the book. For once, I'm going to do things the way Dawson would have done them. After all, I don't want revenge. Not really. I want answers.
Limping over to the laptop, which is sitting on the desk behind Dr. Huston, I reach out and hit the mute button.
"What the hell?" Dr. Huston says, turning and staring at me with a shocked look on her face.
"Boo," I say, aiming the gun at her.
"Ms. Mason," she replies, clearly stunned by my arrival. "I wasn't expecting you back so soon."
"So I see," I reply. "I mean, if you thought I was coming, it'd be kinda impolite to stick on a video of me being tortured. So fucking gauche, don't you agree?"
She smiles, but her eyes are fixed on me as if she's already looking for signs of weakness. After a moment, she glances down at my hip, and I can tell she's trying to work out whether she could physically overcome me.
"So is this part of your academic study?" I ask, glancing at the image on the screen.
"It's first-hand documentation of everything that Paula Clarke did to you," she replies. "It's so rare to be able to view the things that one is writing about."
"What a stroke of luck," I mutter.
"I'm sure you have a lot of questions," she says, with a hint of nervousness in her voice. Standing up, she slowly walks over to her desk, and it's clear that her mind is spinning as she tries to work out how to deal with my sudden arrival. "I really, really didn't expect you tonight."
"Don't beat yourself up over it," I reply, struggling to remain calm. Although the video is on mute, I can't help glancing over yet again at the image, which shows Paula still sawing into my leg. "Everyone makes mistakes," I add, turning back to Dr. Huston. "At least you weren't having a wank while you were watching. That would've been really embarrassing, huh? God, I'd have blushed."
"Why do you talk like that?" she replies. "You seem to accentuate your masculine side when you're on edge, Ms. Mason, and you make silly, juvenile jokes. I've noticed that about you before. It seems quite odd, but I can only assume it's part of your coping mechanism after the trauma of -"
"I'm not here for a therapy session," I say, interrupting her. "For your information, I was a sarcastic, cynical cow before Sam Gazade, and I'm still one now. The only thing that's changed is this fucking limp, which is really starting to piss me off."
"Is it permanent?" she asks.
"None of your business."
"So how did you know?" she asks after a moment. "I mean, how did you know that Paula wasn't acting alone? How did you know that she wasn't just rambling when she mentioned me? After all, she's hardly a reliable witness."
"Instinct," I say firmly. "You've either got it or you haven't, and I've got it."
"I've always been the opposit
e," she replies. "I embraced academia precisely because I needed to work methodically toward each new idea. Instinct is just a fool's attempt to rationalize guesswork. You can't just pluck insight out of the air." She stares at me for a moment, and it's clear that she's trying to come up with an idea. "So tell me. How did you know to come back here?"
"It was obvious that Paula Clarke couldn't have pulled this off," I reply. "She was falling apart. Besides, the first murders were methodical and ordered, as if they were carried out by someone who had a much more clinical perspective. At first I dismissed the idea that one person could manipulate another person to the extent that would be necessary to control Paula, but then I figured... what the hell?"
"What the hell?"
"You're the real monster here," I continue. "Paula held herself together for a long time, but she couldn't do it indefinitely. Even without your interference, her anger and lack of self-worth would have dragged her down eventually. But you, Dr. Huston, seem to be much better at pretending to be normal. You're not though, are you? Under everything else, you're just as fucked-up as Paula. You're just much better at covering it up."
She smiles, and I can see that I'm right.
"I've never really understood people," she says. "All this talk of morality and ethics just seems like showboating. One simply does what needs to be done."
"And that includes manipulating the mind of a mentally ill student?"
"It's all for a purpose," she says after a moment. "I studied the Sam Gazade case for years, but my results were ignored. Men like Harry Gillespie received grants and awards, and I was overlooked every goddamn time. Eventually I realized that I needed to get much closer to the action. Killers like Gazade have been hacking up and torturing women for centuries, and I wanted to recreate Gazade's murders with the genders switched. I thought it'd be an interesting sociological experiment, and I would have done it all myself, except that I needed to be able to observe the aftermath. That's why I manipulated Paula and got her to take part. I also knew that she had to get caught, so I decided to set up that little stunt with you."
"But Paula didn't kill the other victims, did she?" I ask. "Edward Hunter, Patrick Donnelly?"
"Don't forget Sam Pressman and Harry Gillespie," she replies. "Oh, haven't you found them yet? Well, you'll catch up eventually." She pauses. "Paula thinks she killed them. It doesn't matter how much therapy the poor little bitch receives. She'll never believe that she's not a serial killer. Really, I think you're better off letting her die. Why work so hard to patch her soul together, only for her to have to face the reality of what she thinks she's done?" She walks over to the bookcase and takes out one of her own books. "I was going to confess eventually, though," she adds. "When it was all over. Once Paula had followed Sam Gazade into the execution chamber, I was going to reveal the truth and shock the world. I would have gone down in history as the greatest academic who ever lived."
"I'm not sure that's quite how people are going to see you," I reply, wincing with pain as I take a step back. "I'm taking you in, Dr. Huston. You can talk to the same psychiatrists who've assessed Paula. You can sit in a room, just like her. The two of you can have a race to see who can hit the crazy bell first."
"Don't compare me to that little idiot," she replies, putting the book back onto the shelf.
"You're right," I continue. "At least she has a chance of recovery, whereas you seem to be permanently off your rocker."
"Paula Clarke was a mentally substandard fool who couldn't withstand even the slightest pressure," she snaps. "Jesus Christ, if I was as dumb as her, or even as dumb as most people, I'd cut my wrists." She smiles. "It's fun being smart, isn't it? I know you're almost at my intellectual level, Ms. Mason. You're intelligent and clearly very strong. Don't you ever look down on the rest of society and pity them? Paula Clarke was nothing more than a lab-rat. I just wish..." She pauses again. "Surely you can see this from my point of view. Why not let me finish my work? You know I'm not going to be a danger to anyone else. Anyway, Sam Gazade's due to be executed soon. I have to witness that moment."
Reaching into my pocket, I take out my phone and bring up Dawson's number.
"Don't be ridiculous," Dr. Huston says. "Come on, why don't you work with me instead? I need to interview you for my study. We're two smart women. We should work together."
"There's not going to be a study," I say, pressing the 'call' button.
"No!" she shouts, lunging at me. Catching me slightly off-guard, she's able to knock the phone from my hand before I push her back against her desk and aim my gun straight at her face.
"I swear," I say firmly, fighting the pain in my hip, "if you give me one more excuse, I'll shoot."
She stares at me for a moment. "You stupid bitch -" she starts to say.
I pull the trigger and the gun fires, hitting her straight in the eye and sending her tumbling back onto her desk, crashing down onto a pile of papers and journals. As she lands, she knocks her Sam Gazade mug from the desk, and it smashes on the carpet below.
Taking a deep breath, I watch as blood pours from Dr. Huston's head. I pick my phone up from the floor and bring up Dawson's number again, but I wait a few minutes before I call, just to make sure that she's dead. After all, even though Paula Clarke deserves a second chance, Dr. Alice Huston was clearly beyond help. While I wait to make sure she's dead, I walk over to the screen, which is still showing the video of Paula cutting into my leg, running on a loop. As I get right up to the screen, the image becomes too pixelated for me to really make much out: I just look like a blob of colors, as does Paula. Putting my hand against the screen, I move my face closer and closer until the pixels are nothing but dancing colors. It's as if I've disappeared completely from the image.
Joanna Mason
"So..." Dawson pauses on the other end of the phone, sounding a little nervous. "Are you okay, Jo? It's not like you to just call up with there's no reason. You're not a chatty person. This is... weird."
"Why's it weird?" I ask, sitting in a hospital gown outside Dr. Gibbs' office. It's almost 9am, and today's the day of my big operation. So far, I've been denied breakfast and told to drink plenty of fluids, and I've been given so many goddamn pills, I feel like I've gone all the way over the rainbow. Any time now, I'm going to lose my mind, and I'd rather get this call out of the way first. "Anyway," I add, "I'm calling to see how things are going with the case. Any news?"
"Schumacher's accepted your self-defense claim regarding Dr. Huston's death," he replies, "although he had a little trouble explaining to the board why you were even there in the first place. Cases like this are usually solved by the investigating detective and his team, not by someone who's technically supposed to have been suspended."
"Burn," I reply with a smile.
"It's fine," he mutters. "I'm used to it."
"You'd better be," I continue. "Once I'm back on duty, it's gonna happen a whole lot more."
"Is that a promise?"
"What about Paula Clarke?" I ask.
"She's been moved to a high-security psychiatric facility. It's touch and go, but apparently she's well gone. She's still chatting away to some imaginary friend, as if she's completely divorced from reality. The first hearing into her mental competency has been postponed. Apparently they did some tests and she was off the charts. They're not sure if she'll ever come around."
"She will," I say, watching as some nurses wander past. "She's tougher than people think."
"And what about you?" Dawson asks. "You gonna tell me what you're up to? What's with all the secrecy?"
"What secrecy?"
"You're up to something," he continues. "Don't bullshit me, Jo. I know you too well."
"I'm by a lake," I say, looking down at the shiny white floor of the hospital corridor. "I thought about what you said, and I decided to get a hobby, so I'm fishing. I'm wearing rubber boots and I'm just casting off right now. Hoping to catch myself a nice fat trout for dinner, and then I'm gonna roast it on a campfire."
"Yep," I say, "and it sucks, so thanks for that." At that moment, a voice over the PA system calls out for a doctor to head to the ward station. "That was a boat," I add. "Some kind of pleasure cruiser going past." I pause for a moment. "Hey!" I shout, startling an orderly along the corridor. "You're scaring the fish!"
"As long as you're okay," Dawson replies, clearly not buying my story but knowing better than to push me.
"I'm fine," I say, as Dr. Gibbs opens the door to his office and waves for me to go inside. "I've got to hang up, though," I add. "I think there's something on my line, so I should probably haul it in. Sorry, I'm not quite up on fishing terminology yet, but something's definitely tweaking my rod. My fishing senses are tingling like mad."
"Good luck," he says, almost as if he knows what's really happening. "Call me if you need me."
"I don't need luck," I reply, cutting the call dead and putting the phone in my gown pocket. Getting to my feet, I limp through into Dr. Gibbs' office and find him arranging a plastic sheet on the bed in the corner. "You afraid I'm gonna wet myself?" I ask, suddenly feeling my chest start to tighten. Until this moment, I wasn't nervous, but now the enormity of today's operation is starting to hit me. After a moment, I realized that I've subconsciously started scratching the side of my chest, just below my armpit.