Her lady shrink, Dr. Lemonte, had told her it was dangerous, at this point, to ignore her “shadow” shelf.
“ Or to fear one's own shadow?” she had replied. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“ Face it… recognize it for what it is.”
“ And what is that?”
“ Another and legitimate aspect of your self. The self that as a child you allowed vent to, that escaped when you picked up an object and hurled it across a room.”
She thought of Rychman hurling objects about his office and wondered if he ever had any shadow fears. Perhaps her psychiatrist was right.
“ How do I let it out safely?” she had asked.
“ Play with it.”
“ Play with it? I don't want to play with it. I'm afraid of it.”
“ Play out harmless aspects of your rejected self-”
She was shaking. “Suppose it, this rejected self, takes hold. Hell, it already has begun to!”
“ You're intelligent, levelheaded, and from what I've read of your record, Jessica, you're a very brave woman. All you need do is face this as you would one of your cases. Investigate intelligently.”
“ But this isn't a case; this is me… me.”
Donna Lemonte had then leaned forward, uncharacteristically took Jessica's hands into her own and stared hard into her eyes. “You can beat this thing; you can shake it, Jess, but in order to heal the split between what you've come to know and accept as your true persona and your shadow persona, you must face the shadow, recognize it for what it is and put it back in its place.”
Ten
After Alan Rychman had dropped Jessica at her hotel, he checked in at headquarters long enough to see that the order he had reluctantly given to arrest Shaw had been carried out. The interrogations had already begun and it looked like Conrad Shaw was going to be so cooperative that he'd confess to anything put to him. He stayed long enough to be certain that proper procedures were being followed. Since his detectives had the situation well in hand, he made the long drive to New Jersey, where his brother Sam lived.
He'd called ahead to his brother, a computer consultant for Pioneer, who owned a roomy home. The phone number was a secret to all but Lou Pierce. Surrounded by gates, bars, and a fail-safe, state-of-the-art security system, “Samhaven”-as Alan jokingly called the place-afforded him the ultimate hideout whenever pressures became unbearable in the big city. Sam didn't mind, because it was the only time he ever saw big brother Alan anymore.
Now Alan was propped up in bed in his perennial guest room. It was near midnight, and Sam and his family of four were fast asleep while he second-guessed the bogus direction the Claw case was taking with the indictment of Conrad Shaw, ideal as he was as a press scapegoat. Rychman's only comfort in the nasty affair was that Jessica Coran had felt as he had about Shaw's then impending arrest. Sharp lady, he told himself, with great instincts of her own, instincts that put her squarely on the plane of the killer. Not to mention her good instincts about men.
He'd hoped she might change her mind when they'd arrived at her hotel, invite him up to her room for a drink and talk. They'd been getting along well before he had clumsily pushed himself on her. He cursed himself as the vivid memory returned.
He pictured her again at the shooting range with him. She had been extremely good with her weapon. She held it as if it were an extension of herself, part of her flesh, and God save the man who tried to take it from her. Tough, dangerous, yes, she was… but there was also something else, something he sensed when his lips had touched hers for that fleeting moment, a certain vulnerability born of pain perhaps? He could not be sure. Something deep within her beautiful eyes told of a well of sadness; yet, she was so alive.
He thought for a moment of the cane, her limp, the doing of that bastard Matisak.
He tried to imagine what she had gone through, the pain and suffering, the loss of her superior and friend, the well-respected Boutine. He could imagine the loss of a partner in the line of duty. He'd had this happen to himself more times than he cared to recall, but he couldn't imagine being at the mercy of a vicious killer like the blood-taker, Matisak.
The case had become required reading at the FBI Academy, not only for the do's but for the don'ts. Dr. Coran had messed up royally, by what he'd heard. She'd gone after this guy Matisak on her own. She was lucky to be alive. Some army personnel guy that'd gone along with her hadn't been so fortunate.
Rychman wondered which was worse, Matisak, the blood-drinking vampire killer, or the Claw, who took delight in rending the flesh and feeding off parts of the body. He knew which man's victims suffered longer.
It was late and he was tired when he turned out the light and rolled over, his mind swimming with the next day's agenda, all the hundreds of administrative jobs that needed to be done to pull his task force properly together. One thing was lacking for certain, he told himself, and that was a sense of teamwork and camaraderie, something he must instill in all of the divergent cops from across the city who were working on the case. But how? They seemed at such odds with each other, little wonder it was taking them so long to pull together.
Ovid's house was beginning to smell like a hospital ward, what with all the disinfectant and formaldehyde. Ovid had put up whole organs in jars all around the house. He sometimes wondered what his mother would have made of his and the Claw's collection.
She most certainly would not approve; she'd be disgusted by the sight-and odor-of his things, and the idea he would consume them. She would order him to stop what he was doing, and she would fight the Claw and likely be killed by the Claw, if it came to that.
Sometimes Ovid awoke in the night to find the Claw standing over him, staring, as if considering the possibility of opening Ovid up, turning him into just another of his victims. Ovid was terrified of the Claw at times. He did what the Claw told him to do out of fear as much as any sense of loyalty or purpose, although he had tried desperately to understand the purpose of the Claw.
The Claw came and went from Ovid's place in the night. He often wanted one of the treasures they'd taken from their victims. Ovid had eyes put up like pickles, a pair of kidneys, a human heart, and the Claw wanted to add to their collection.
The Claw was like a spirit, the way he moved in and out of the shadows, disappearing into the night mist. It was almost as if he came with his own thick fog, the kind you heard about in England, as thick as soup, floating about him. His features were always cloaked and indistinct. Sometimes he just came for one of the jars, taking it off with him. Other times, like tonight, he ordered Ovid up and dressed. While Ovid was dressing, he disappeared, only to reappear again, telling Ovid he had a prize for him. Ovid went downstairs to the living room and found a rolled carpet in the center of the floor with a bloodied body inside.
“ What the hell's this? You can't bring one of your kills into my house. This is crazy!”
“ You're going to help me get rid of it, Ovid, now. But first, I want you to take a good look at the face.”
With that the Claw tore open the carpet, revealing the bloody, eyeless corpse. The body was that of an elderly, white-haired woman, and the Claw turned up the face so Ovid could see it clearly in the dim light.
“ Hold on, ohhh, no, ohhh no! You've gone too far this time, dammit, too far,” cried Ovid. “It's Mrs. Phillips. You killed Mrs. Phillips!”
“ A present for you, Ovid.”
“ What? A present?”
“ It's clear enough, Ovid. Or do I have to spell it out? You can't be so thick. I can kill anyone, including you, with this!” He held up his powerful claw and it glinted in the moonlight filtering in from outside.