"You didn't have any fight in you. Why, you were so out of it, you barely flinched when he hit you. But even then you weren't afraid. I could tell. The contrast, at least, made for fascinating viewing."
She felt gooseflesh rise on her arms as remnants of memories flooded her-the movement of his hands over hers, the pushing and slapping, the caressing that turned to pain.
She heard the bed ease up and knew that Dr. Beader-meyer was standing beside her, looking down at her. She heard him say softly, "Holland, if she gets away again, I'll have to hurt you badly. Do you understand?"
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"Yes, Doctor Beadermeyer."
"It won't be like last time, Holland. I made a mistake on your punishment last time. You rather liked that little shock therapy, didn't you?"
"It won't happen again, Doctor Beadermeyer." Was there disappointment in that frightening little man's voice?
"Good. You know what happened to Nurse Krider when she let her hide those pills under her tongue.
Yes, of course you do. Be mindful, Holland.
"I must go now, Sally, but I'll be with you again this evening. We'll have to get you away from the sanitarium, probably tomorrow morning. The decision about what to do with you hasn't been made just yet. But you can't stay here. The FBI, this Quinlan fellow, he's got to know all about this place. I'm sure you did tell him some things about your past. And they'll come. But that isn't your problem.
“Now, let me give you a little shot of something that will make you drift and really feel quite good about things. Yes, Holland, hold her arm for me."
Sally felt the chill of the needle, felt the brief sting. Within moments, she felt herself begin to drift out of her brain, to float in nothingness. She felt the part of her that was real, the part of her that wanted life-such a small flicker, really-struggling briefly before it succumbed. She sighed deeply and was gone from herself.
She felt hands on her, taking off her clothes. She knew it was Holland. Probably Dr. Beadermeyer was watching.
She didn't struggle. There was nothing more to care about.
Quinlan woke up with a roaring headache that beat any hangover he'd ever had in college. He cursed, held his head in his hands, and cursed some more.
"You've got the mother of all headaches, right?"
"David," he said, and even that one word hurt. "What the devil happened?"
"Someone hit you good just above your left ear. Our doctor put three stitches in your head. Hold still and I'll get you a pill."
Quinlan focused on that pill. It had to help. If it didn't, his brain would break out of his skull.
"Here, Quinlan. It's strong stuff; you're supposed to have just one every four hours."
Quinlan took it and downed the entire glass of water. He lay back, his eyes closed, and waited.
"Doctor Grafft said it would kick in quickly."
"I sure as hell hope so. Talk to me, David. Where's Sally?"
"I'll tell you everything. Just lie still. I found you unconscious in that narrow little strip of alley beside the Hinterlands. Thelma Nettro had reported you and Sally missing, so I started looking.
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"You scared the shit out of me. When I found you lying there, I thought you were dead. I slung you over my shoulder and brought you to my house. Doctor Grafft met me here and stitched you up. I don't know about Sally. She's just gone, Quinlan. No trace, nothing. It's like she was never even here."
If he hadn't hurt so badly, Quinlan would have yelled. Instead, he just lay there, trying to figure things out, trying to think. For the moment, it was beyond him.
Sally was gone. That was all that was real to him. Gone, not found dead. Gone. But where?
He heard children's voices. Surely that couldn't be right. He heard David say, "Deirdre, come here and sit on my lap. You've got to keep very quiet, okay? Mr. Quinlan isn't feeling well, and we don't want to make him feel worse."
He heard a little girl whisper, but he couldn't make it out. Deirdre meant sorrow. He slept.
He awoke to see a young woman with a pale complexion and very dark red hair looking at him. She had the sweetest face he'd ever seen. "Who are you?"
"I'm Jane, David's wife. You just lie still, Mr. Quinlan." He felt her cool palm on his forehead. "I've got some nice hot chicken soup for you. Doctor Grafft said to keep it light until tomorrow. You just open your mouth and I'll feed you. That's right."
He ate the entire bowl and began to feel human. "Thank you," he said, and slowly, her hand under his elbow, he sat up.
"Your head ache?"
''It's just a dull thud now. What time is it? Rather, what day is it?"
"You were hurt early this afternoon. It's eight o'clock in the evening now. I hope the girls didn't disturb you."
"No, not at all. Thank you for taking me in."
"Let me get David. He's tucking the girls into bed. He should be just about through with the bedtime story."
Quinlan sat there, his head back against the cushions of the sofa, a nice comfortable sofa. The headache was gone now. He could get out of here soon. He could find Sally. He realized he was scared to his socks. What had happened to her?
Her father had come for her just as he'd promised he would. No, that was ridiculous. Amory St. John was long dead.
"You want some brandy in hot tea?"
"Nan, my pecker doesn't need optimism." Quinlan opened his eyes and smiled at David Mountebank.
"Your wife fed me. Great soup. I appreciate you taking me in, David."
"I couldn't leave you with Thelma Nettro, now, could I? I wouldn't leave my worst enemy there. That old lady gives me the willies. It's the weirdest thing. She always has that diary of hers with her and that Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
fountain pen in her hand. The tip of her tongue is practically tattooed from the pen tip."
"Tell me about Sally."
"Every man I could round up is talking to everybody in The Cove and looking for her. I've got an APB
out on her-''
"No APB," James said, sitting up straight now, his face paling. "No, David, cancel it now. It's critical."
"I won't buy any more of this national security shit, Quinlan. Tell me why or I won't do it."
"You're not being cooperative, David."
"Tell me and let me help you."
"She's Sally St. John Brainerd."
David just stared at him. "She's Amory St. John's daughter? The daughter who's nuts and who ran away from that sanitarium? The woman whose husband is frantic about her safety? I knew she looked familiar.
Damn, I'm slipping fast. I should have made the connection. Ah, that's the reason for the black wig. Then she just forgot to put it on, didn't she?"
"Yeah, that and I told her to relax, that you would never connect her to Susan Brainerd, at least I prayed you wouldn't."
"I wish I could say I would have, but hell, I probably never would have unless I saw her in person and then saw her again on TV. What were you doing with her, Quin-lan?"
Quinlan sighed. "She doesn't know I'm FBI. She bought that story about me being a PI and looking for those old folks who disappeared around here three years ago. I came here because I had this feeling she would run here, to her aunt. I was just going to take her back."
"But why is the FBI involved in a homicide?"
"It's not just a homicide at all. That's only part of it. We're in it for other reasons."
"I know. You're not going to tell me the rest of it."
"I'd prefer not to just yet. As I was saying, I was going to take her back, but then-"
"Then what?"
"Her father phoned her twice. Then she saw his face at her window in the middle of the night."
"And you found her father's footprints on the ground the next morning. Her father's dead, murdered.