“A lie stands on one leg, the truth on two.”
The irony, of course, was that Abby had given him the book that contained those words. Poor Richard’s Almanac.
Poor Richard, indeed. Poor Abby.
Poor Michael.
Putting his hands on his stomach, he said the words again, feeling the rhythm of his breathing, each new breath now slower than the last, his panic finally, thankfully, subsiding.
Feeling foolish and ashamed, he climbed into his car, sank deep into the driver’s seat.
He half expected Lisa or Blackburn or someone with a butterfly net to show up, but several minutes went by and no one did. He was alone out here. Just as he’d wanted to be. Alone with his thoughts, his worries, his dread.
His madness?
He knew he should march right back into that hospital and tell them both what was going on. Tell Blackburn about his missing time, that they needed to look more closely at Abby’s murder, because he couldn’t make any guarantees about his own culpability.
This woman, this Jane Doe, had made him see that. Her resemblance to Abby had opened a Pandora’s box of emotions. Emotions he could no longer contain. And in trying to suppress them this past year, he had developed his own psychosis.
The psychosis of a guilty man?
But he didn’t get up. Didn’t march into the hospital. Didn’t tell anyone about the time he’d lost, or the delusions that plagued him.
Instead, he simply leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes.
But the moment he did, a whispery voice said:
“Hello, Dr. Tolan.”
And before he could react, the sting of a needle touched his neck and he was suddenly falling backward down a long, dark hole.
FOUR
The Man Who Wasn’t There
29
Solomon felt it the moment they started up the winding road toward Headcase Hotel. It was only a vague feeling at first, but the closer they got, the stronger it grew.
Trouble.
There was trouble here.
A definite break in The Rhythm.
The two cops were talking football in the front seat, the driver every once in a while glancing at Solomon in the rearview mirror, giving him the cop scowl. This was the one who had started to beat on him once they left County General. Told Solomon he’d blown it, the way he’d acted up with the intake lady, calling him a liar and whatnot. Said that once they got to Baycliff he was gonna tell the doctors that Solomon was a violent sex offender. See how that worked out for him.
Solomon didn’t really care.
Not about that, at least.
But this trouble he sensed, this break in The Rhythm — it was worrisome, to say the least.
On the one hand it told him what he’d needed to know. That the woman he called Myra was here.
But on the other hand, it also told him that what he’d most feared this morning might very well be true. That she wasn’t quite the Myra he knew. She might not even be Myra at all by now.
The car rounded a curve and Solomon saw the hospital up ahead, a cluster of drab old buildings that could just as easily have been a college or an old-town office complex. As they pulled into the parking lot, he noticed a small forest of pepper trees beyond the main walkway.
Solomon felt a strange vibe coming from those trees. Like there was something alive back there. Something dangerous.
Trouble.
It was bound to get worse before it got any better.
It always did.
30
Two meltdowns in one morning.
That had to be a record.
Tolan was obviously a guy with some very serious psychological issues and Blackburn wished he’d never brought Psycho Bitch here in the first place.
After Tolan fled, Blackburn had turned to her, trying to figure out what it was about this woman that triggered such a strong reaction from the guy. But she had already resumed her previous position — knees up, head tucked to her chest, as she whispered the same mindless chant:
“Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie…”
Had she said Tolan’s name earlier?
She’d spoken to him, he knew that much. Said something soft and low, and Blackburn had thought he’d heard her say “Michael.” But he couldn’t be sure. Couldn’t be sure of anything at this point.
“Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie…”
Who was this woman?
Did Tolan know her?
What power did she have over him?
After locking her in the room, Blackburn had turned to an orderly crossing the hall.
“You see which way Doc Tolan went?”
The orderly pointed. “Around the corner.”
He was about to start in that direction when his phone bleeped. He dug it out, flipped it open.
De Mello.
He thumbed a button. “Hey, Fred, you get the name of that model yet?”
“Still waiting for a callback,” De Mello said. “But I’ve got the cell phone records you asked for. Where do you want me to fax them?”
Tolan had given them permission to pull his cell records in hopes they’d be able to trace Vincent’s calls. It was a long shot, but they had to try.
Blackburn remembered seeing one of those printer/fax combos in Tolan’s office when the techs were wiring it up. That was as good a place as any. Besides, maybe that was where Tolan had gone.
“Give me a couple minutes,” he said. “I’ll call you back with a number.”
Five minutes later he was standing in Tolan’s office — no sign of the doc in evidence — waiting for the fax machine to kick into gear. After a moment, it rang, picked up, then the printer started whirring, slowly pushing out the list of cell phone calls.
As Blackburn waited, something caught his eye.
Tolan’s bottom desk drawer. Hanging open.
Inside was a manila envelope labeled in black marker: ABBY.
Blackburn knew he should let it go, that it was none of his business, but curiosity got the better of him. Reaching into the drawer, he pulled out the envelope, then raised the flap and saw that it was filled with photographs. Dozens of them.
He took out a handful and sifted through them. Shots of Abby Tolan.
She’d been a beautiful woman. Stunning, in fact. He had only seen the autopsy photos and the single portrait in the murder book, but looking at these, he now understood why both Tolan and Nurse Lisa had reacted to the witness the way they had. The resemblance was close. Close enough to dredge up a lot of grief.
He was about to return them when he noticed something odd about some of the photos inside the envelope. Pulling out another stack, he laid them on the desktop and looked down at them in stunned surprise.
What the hell?
A slow chill ran through Blackburn as the fax machine behind him beeped, telling him his transmission was ready.
He found Carmody in the communications van, micromanaging as usual, making sure the audio techs weren’t asleep at the wheel.
“We’ve got problems,” he said. “Major problems.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Tolan took off, for one.”
Carmody looked alarmed. “Why? What happened?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. The witness starts singing and he goes ballistic. One of the nurses saw him crossing toward the parking lot and now his car’s gone.”
“Damn it,” Carmody said, climbing out of the van. “We need to find him. If Vincent somehow—”
“Forget Vincent.” Blackburn gestured to the van. “This is a waste of time. All of it.”