“The fingertips in the pine tar?”
“Also Mason.”
A beat as we both thought about that.
“And it was the same scenario for Hazel Strike.” Lucky. I swallowed. “Strike drives Cora to Charlotte. Cora dissociates and kills her. Owen Lee shows up, dumps Strike’s body in the pond, then hauls little sister back up to Avery.”
“That’s Owen Lee’s version, though he denies Cora killed anyone.”
“Who did?”
“The Evil One.”
“Right.” I didn’t bother hiding my revulsion.
“Lucifer or no, Owen Lee admits that, as a precaution, he smashed Strike’s phone and threw it over a guardrail, later pitched her computer into the dumpster in Banner Elk.”
“What about the recorder?”
“He claims he never saw it. I’m guessing Strike stashed the thing somewhere to keep you from getting it.”
“It wasn’t in her house?”
Slidell shook his head. “Good chance we’ll never find it.”
“Where do you think the murder went down?”
“My money’s on the park. That’s where Owen Lee says he found Cora. And CSU pulled a metal hiking stick out of the pond. When we tossed Strike’s house we found a couple like it in the garage. I’m guessing she kept one in her car. I’ve got a team back out there now.”
“Do you know how Cora hooked up with Strike?”
“Fatima came through on that one. She says Strike showed up at their house that Saturday. John threw her out, later found Cora missing. Seems they had a set of padded and locked rooms where they kept the kid when Hoke wasn’t waging his holy war against her demons.”
“Somehow Cora got out and persuaded Strike to take her away,” I said.
“When John discovered her gone he called Owen Lee. Owen Lee hotfooted it down to Charlotte.”
“How did he know where to go?”
“Strike left contact info in case anyone experienced a change of heart about talking to her.”
“Including a home address?”
“What the dame lacked in caution she made up for in zeal.”
“It was Owen Lee who sent the rock over the edge at the Devil’s Tail trail.”
“Yeah. He overheard you and Ramsey at Wiseman’s View, panicked, and followed you. Says he just wanted to scare you off. Owen Lee ain’t the brightest stripe on the flag.”
“No,” I agreed. “He’s not.”
“Here’s what I don’t get. How does a timid little mouse like Cora wig out and turn into a stone-cold murderer?”
“Some people with dissociative disorders have a tendency toward self-sabotage. Others turn the violence outward. But remember, in a way Owen Lee is right. It wasn’t Cora doing the killing. It was her alter. And I think you’ve put your finger on it. I’m not a psychiatrist, but I suspect Elizabeth Báthory emerged because of Cora’s sense of powerlessness.”
“And this chick makes her kill?”
“Not exactly. When under sufficient stress, Cora becomes Elizabeth. It is Elizabeth who is doing the killing.”
“Who the hell is she?”
“The bloody countess.”
“That clears it up.”
“Elizabeth Báthory has been branded the most prolific female serial killer in history. She was tried for torturing and murdering hundreds of girls.”
“When was this?”
“The sixteenth century. In Hungary.”
“Helluva way to get her rocks off.”
“Legend has it she liked to bathe in the blood of virgins to retain her youth.”
“Great role model.”
“Cora’s subconscious saw Báthory as powerful.”
“This kid wasn’t allowed TV or the Internet. Her books were screened, and, except for school and church, she wasn’t allowed outa the house. How’d she learn about this countess?”
“Katalin Brice is Hungarian. Cora probably found history books in their home.”
“So no speaking in tongues.”
I shook my head. “Nope. She was speaking Hungarian.”
“Well, she sure as hell was speaking in blood.”
I offered no comment.
A few seconds, then, “Looks like the countess ain’t alone in there.”
“Oh?”
“The shrink’s using hypnosis. Thinks he’s made another acquaintance.”
“It’s not uncommon that other personalities become known during treatment. Who’s the new one?”
“He don’t want to go into detail.”
Slidell and I both took a tea moment. Then he asked, voice edged with something I couldn’t define, “How common is this dissociating shit?”
“DID sufferers tend to have other issues as well—depression, anxiety, substance abuse, borderline personality disorder—so it’s hard to diagnose. But the condition is rare. I’ve read stats that put the incidence at one one-hundredth of a percent to one percent within the general population.”
Slidell blew a long breath through his nose. “I don’t know. Sounds like defense lawyer mumbo jumbo to me.”
“You remember Herschel Walker?” Knowing Slidell was a football fan.
“Course I do. Walker won the Heisman in ’82.”
“Hang on.” I went to the study, returned, and slid a book across the table. “You read, right?”
“Hilarious. What is this?”
“Breaking Free.”
“I can see that.”
“Walker is the author. In the book he talks about having DID.”
“Are you shitting me?”
I just looked at him. Then shifted gears. “So what will happen to Hoke and the Teagues?”
“Accessory after the fact, obstructing, improper disposal of a human body.” Slidell’s mouth pursed up in disgust. “And these assholes ain’t counting on Jesus for deliverance. They’re already lawyered up.”
“If one day Cora is declared competent, could the DA possibly bring charges? Except for Owen Lee, there are no witnesses, no forensics or physical evidence.”
“We got the video of the kid in Strike’s car. Maybe her prints. But unless she confesses, or Hoke or a family member agrees to testify, being competent to stand trial don’t mean she was competent at the time of the murders. And which of her personalities would you put on trial? The shrinks’ll say she couldn’t tell right from wrong or adhere to the right. Blah, blah, blah.”
We both knew the chances of prosecution were slim to none. Then Slidell stunned me. With a compliment.
“You know, Doc, when speaking in bones, you’re pretty good. Maybe you’ll come up with something.”
With that Slidell pushed to his feet. I walked him to the door. And he was gone.
April twenty-seven. Ten forty-two A.M.
Sun pounded through the floor-to-ceiling glass, warming eggshell walls and blond oak floors. Flames danced in a rectangular pit stretching low across a long marble hearth. At our backs, countertops and cabinets gleamed brilliant white and our images reflected off flawless stainless steel.
I loved the place. The place terrified me.
I crossed the dining room to look down on the city twelve stories below. Behind me, a realtor continued the hard sell.
Centreville was busy with the usual Monday morning shoppers, appointment keepers, dog walkers, and stroller-pushing nannies and moms. I leaned forward to peer out past the terrace.
To the east, students hurried in both directions through the gates at McGill. To the west, the Musée des beaux-arts, boutiques, galleries, shops, and residential buildings lined curbs heading toward Westmount, Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, and the West Island beyond.
The last of the mountainous winter drifts had melted, leaving streets and sidewalks iridescent with oily runoff. Here and there, chimneys exhaled thin streams of breath, pale and vaporous against the spectacularly blue sky.
Not yet, but soon the rituals of spring would begin. Jackets and boots would be exchanged for bare limbs and sandals. Tables would appear outside restaurants and pubs. Students would toss Frisbees, picnic, and lounge on newly greened campus lawns.