had eyes in the back of his head—saw and heard everything. Honoring her request, he had left her alone in high school. Yet, he had always been there … lurking in some corner … completely at ease with himself and his geekiness. Nothing had ever bothered him … not the insults, not the taunts, not the rejections. Slings and arrows had bounced off him as if he were protected by chain mail. She had admired him for it. Told him so when they had turned adults.
But back then, she hadn’t been able to accept him. Because she had been popular. And popular girls didn’t say such things to geeks.
Shame suddenly coursed through her veins. Feeling the heat in her face. But it wasn’t her fault. Because she had no one to guide her. Besides … it was all working out. Everyone loved Alison.
Gliding through high school because she had managed to condense her routines into one or two tidy rituals.
Like handwashing. Infinitely better than kissing bedposts. Now, at least, her hands were always antiseptic.
Ten minutes had passed.
Water on and off. On and off. On and off.
Then she took the plunge. Forced herself to turn off the water and pick up the hairbrush. Major anxiety—an accelerated heartbeat, jumpiness in her stomach, lightheadedness. But she talked herself through it.
I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay.
Running the hard nylon brush through her shoulder-length locks. Combing out the knots. With each successive stroke, her agitation lessened. By the time she was done, she only needed to turn the water off and on a couple of dozen times. Then she told herself to leave.
Practicing an exercise she had learned years ago. To literally take her own hand and guide herself out of the high-frequency-behavior area. Tugging at her own fingers until she was back in her bedroom.
Now lie down!
An order.
She always listened to orders.
Except when the voices told her not to.
But that didn’t happen very much. No, not too much anymore. Because she knew they weren’t real, and often she talked back to them. Of course, when she did, it made her feel like she wanted to wash her hands again.
Longing to go back to the bathroom.
To run the tap.
On and off.
On and off.
On and off.
No, no, no. Better to do research.
You have a brain, Alison. Just learn to use it. Steve’s pithy encouragement to his young, new wife.
It had been right after they had been married. About a month after their fabulous honeymoon in Hawaii. She had burned something in the oven … probably a chicken. She figured that if it took a chicken two hours to bake at 350 degrees, why not cook it for one hour at 700? Except the oven didn’t go up to 700. So she had turned the sucker on the highest temperature—broil—and waited.
The small wooden house had been moments away from becoming tinder. The firemen had said she had been very lucky.
She hadn’t felt at all lucky.
It hadn’t been her fault. What had she known about cooking? Her dad’s idea of homemade grub had been picking a grapefruit from their backyard tree. Poor little thing … languishing in the clay soil. Still, Daddy had been persistent. He had fed it, nurtured it. And eventually it had given fruit … beautiful sweet, pink fruit.
Just like her.
Two beautiful boys. Daddy loved them so.
Her boys.
Have to stay sane or else they’d take away her boys. She knew that. Not that anyone ever said that to her explicitly. But she knew the score.
She had to stay sane.
It really wasn’t that hard to fool them. She could be sane when she had to be. It was just staying sane … as in all the time. Who could stay sane all the time?
Her research kept her grounded.
To read and write. To write and read.
Anything.
So long as the mind was occupied.
Because when the mind was occupied, there was no room for voices.
“I’m not telling you to spy on him. Just keep him out of situations that could come back to haunt us.”
There was a long beat over the line. Patricia asked, “Am I supposed to play dumb? I don’t feel comfortable with that, Sergeant.”
“No, you can tell him I called … tell him what I said verbatim. Knowing Steve, he’ll do a true confessions as soon as he sees you … get all the garbage out of the way.” Poe raked his hair with his fingers. “Probably’ll say some choice words about me. So be it. Let him rant. Just keep an eye out.”
“All right.”
But she sounded wary. Poe knew he was putting her in the middle. Not a choice assignment, but since he had kept Steve on, someone had to watch him. He said, “Jensen should be there any moment.”
“He’s pulling up now.”
“I’ll be at Havana. Beep if you need me. After that—unless I get some hot lead—I should be back at the Bureau to finish up paperwork. Let’s all plan on meeting in a couple of hours.”
“Fine.”
“Bye.” Poe cut the line, started the car, let it idle in neutral. Before he jerked the stick into reverse, he took off the plastic protective slicker he’d been wearing and slipped on a lightweight ebony blazer he kept in the trunk for emergencies. It wouldn’t keep him warm, but it gave him a look.
Black jacket, black turtleneck, black jeans, black socks and shoes. All-purpose clothes. He’d fit in anywhere. Again, he combed his droopy locks with his fingernails. Checked himself in the mirror. He needed a shave, which gave him the appearance of pulling an all-nighter. Casinos like that image.
West on Charleston, he headed back into town, making it to Main in under five minutes. A few more blocks, then Poe merged onto Las Vegas Boulevard. Some cars and cabs were still on the road, but the Strip was essentially deserted. Things slowed down as night inched toward dawn. People calling it quits, roosting in their hotel rooms, licking their wounds or sleeping off a bender. Besides, the weather wasn’t conducive to strolling.
A pleasure to drive the boulevard empty. Devoid
