Sorrow's crown afgm-2 Page 10

  My cell phone rang and both Anubis and I jumped. It was the guy who'd sold the phone to me, checking to see if it worked to satisfaction. I told him yes even though I thought the shrill, twittering ring was as bad as jangling bells over the door of a flower shop-bookstore.

  Anna returned and gently set the ice pack against my temple. She took the phone out of my hand and fiddled with it, flipping open the receiver and pressing buttons that made pretty green lights blink. She appeared agitated and so did Anubis, who continued to mutter. I got a pad and pen out of the drawer and gave her the number. We both realized that the world had suddenly gotten a little smaller.

  "A cell phone. This reminds me of when you were eight and cried unabashedly for weeks on end because of your insistence on walkie-talkies."

  "I never did get them."

  "You did, but we refused to address you as Agent X-49, and you proved to be far too petulant to speak with afterwards." She handed the phone back to me and rubbed her hands together as though touching it had made them cold. "Who did this to you? Tell me what happened."

  I told her about Devington haunting Katie, and my seeing Kristin again, and the amount of animosity and displaced malice that could still rage inside even the mothers of failed football heroes.

  "And was this fight analogous to your letting off a little steam?" Anna asked.

  "No, it was analogous to me punching an asshole in the head."

  "And being punched."

  "Yeah, well, that too."

  She left for a minute and returned with cotton balls and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. "You might consider taking up stamp collecting as a more beneficial way to pass the time."

  "It's something to think about."

  My grandmother swabbed my bruises and made a huffy noise in her throat exactly like the irritated grumble that everybody else had been giving me lately, including the dog. Two of the photo albums remained in her lap and after she finished cleaning me up, she rested her forearms over them, staring out the one window with the shade up. The ice pack felt good against the rising knot on my head. Anubis kept looking at me with anticipation, like he was expecting a detailed catalogue of the afternoon. I told him to go lie down a couple of times, but he sat stolid and sedate, waiting for something to happen. I sort of felt the same way, and knew that Anna did, too.

  "It is your assertion that Keaton Wallace was duped with a false passport into incorrectly identifying the corpse as Teddy Harnes?" she said.

  "I'm not certain. Lowell sure doesn't think so."

  I couldn't get over what I'd seen in the cemetery. The boy's face-why had they taken his face?

  "But you considered the possibility that Teddy might be hiding in the Conway house on High Ridge?" she asked.

  "If he is then Alice Conway is brokenhearted about whoever was buried in his stead. Her grief was real."

  "As was Daphne Kupfer's anger? Or do you feel it was resentment? Jealousy, perhaps?"

  "I don't know."

  "Possibly Daphne planned to woo young Teddy, and her plans were derailed by his relationship with Alice?"

  "Makes sense. From what I've seen she mostly woos young men, and none of them are as well off financially as Teddy … was… would have been … might have been."

  "Has Nicodemus Crummler made contact with you yet?"

  That took me back a step. "Made contact with me? Anna, you make it sound like we're in a James Bond flick."

  "Be that as it may, have you seen him since your arrival back in Felicity Grove?"

  "No." I had the feeling he was sitting back waiting until some major play was at hand. I looked down at the albums and said, "Show me Diane Cruthers. I want to see her."

  Anna reacted instantly, like she'd been waiting all night for me to ask that. She knew where to look and turned to it without having any trouble locating it among the array of snapping pages and hundreds of photographs. Years crackled and swept by. I spotted my grandfather in his pre-sagebrush eyebrow period. Other smiling faces spun past, along with children, weekends at the lake, houses, pets, windswept hair, lots of dimpled knees.

  She stopped abruptly and her index finger tapped out a tattoo on the plastic. "There is Diane."

  The two large black-and-white photos on the page had that extra-sharp contrast and crispness that the old-time cameras gave-that wonderful light, shadow and shine effect that made everyone look so damn good, straight out of film noir.

  Diane Cruthers, for all time, remained on this page a statuesque woman with shiny luscious lips that formed a knowing, honest smile. In the first shot she had her palm up to the camera as if to wave it off, her head slightly turned like she was about to burst into laughter. She wore her hair in a nearly full-blown bouffant. Beside her stood my grandmother. Anna had on a plaited flower dress, with her teenage gawkiness on the cusp of shifting into womanly grace. I noticed a slight roll of her shoulders, as though she hunkered before a more weighty personality. Her smile was nothing more than her teeth clicking together. Her face was partially obscured by Diane's arching hair as they both sort of dipped their chins in opposite directions.

  In the second photo Anna had begun to lurch to one side, leaving the scene without realizing another photo was being shot, the smile softening and becoming much more natural. Her eyes focused as she spotted someone across the room, her attention directed away from the photographer. Even at the age of eighteen she'd hated to pose. Diane Cruthers looked more solemn in this one, the smile less structured. She and Anna both had long sleek legs, and kept their hem lines lifted an extra few inches as the post-war years edged into the hipster abandon of the 'fifties.

  "Do you have any photos of Harnes?"

  "No."

  "He's not in any of these?"

  "No."

  "Are you telling me the truth, Anna?"

  If I'd smacked her I couldn't have gotten a more hostile reaction from her. My grandmother's chin snapped up as if a gunshot had gone off. The air filled with such an atmosphere of disappointment that I suddenly felt more afraid than when Mrs. Devington had come after me with a wrench.

  Anna said, "I've never lied to you. Never. Nor would I begin in this instance. You ought to be ashamed for asking.”

  “I am. I'm sorry."

  The cell phone rang and both Anubis and I jumped again. I knew I'd never get used to the damn thing.

  I answered and Lowell kept it brief. He said, "Go see Crummler tomorrow. In the evening, after most of the staff have already left for the day. We're sending protocol to hell on the bullet train so just fake it when you have to." He didn't say "if" I had to. "Try to get something useful out of him."

  I hung up and told Anna, "I'm going to visit Crummler tomorrow.”

  “Good, Jonathan. He needs to understand that he hasn't been forgotten inside that awful place. Discover whatever you can from him, and I shall attempt to do the same directly at the source.”

  “The source? What source?" She drew an envelope from her pocket and handed it to me.

  "What is it?”

  “An invitation. I've been invited to Theodore Harms' home for dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this a dinner for the two of you or a party?”

  “A small gathering, I believe.”

  “I don't suppose one arrived for me?”

  “No.”

  “You're allowed a guest?”

  “Yes. Oscar will be accompanying me."

  I sat back, sighed, and snapped the envelope against my knee. "You're trying to shut me out on this one. Why?" She cocked her head, but I had my answer already. "You're trying to protect me from him, aren't you? For a guy with his resources, capable of making people disappear, I don't see why he'd get so sloppy in murdering his own son." She seemed a little too pleased that I couldn't be in attendance, so I grasped at straws. "Maybe my invitation went to Katie's.”

  “No, I'm afraid it didn't. I took the liberty of phoning her earlier, and she mentioned that n
othing had come in the mail for you there.”

  “Oh. Well, then."

  Guess I'd just have to crash the party.

  NINE

  Panecraft continued to rise into the darkening sky, silhouetted in the lustrous moon as black and silver clouds roiled onwards. Not even five o'clock yet and already the day had drifted into a deepening night with the approach of another storm.

  Looking up at the hospital, it didn't take a great leap of imagination to believe every rumor about this place was true, and that even greater secrets prowled within that had never even been whispered about.

  Yesterday Lowell had made calls. To whom I didn't know, and had no clue how effectual they might actually be. The institute had a black-and-white striped semaphore arm at the front gate checkpoint. When I told the guard my name he made a big show of flipping page after page of lists on his Lucite clipboard and not finding me anywhere. He said, "Wait right here. Turn off the engine," and picked up a red phone in his little booth. He muttered unhappily for a while before finally palming a button that opened the gate.

  He dismissed me without a word or gesture, pulled out a men's magazine called Gozangas and turned back to the centerfold he'd been staring at before I'd disturbed him. I drove through thinking of every low-budget horror movie I'd ever seen where madmen in asylums leaped onto the hoods of visiting cars and giggled maniacally, their insane faces splashed against the windshield.

  I found the parking lot and got out. There were a great many people walking the grounds, some accompanied by nurses or guards, others alone or with visiting friends and family. Regardless of the dusk, several patients still read beneath trees, and a couple of guys threw a football. At the main doors there was another checkpoint where two guards looked over my identification. I was frisked and told to turn out my pockets; they nabbed my cell phone and went through more pages on other clipboards.

  I looked up and down the long, well-lit corridors: they were completely empty. I wondered where all the other people listed on the clipboards might be. The guards pointed at a bench and told me to sit. I waited and they made a couple more phone calls, first on a red phone and then on a yellow phone.

  Eventually one of them said, "Dr. Brent will allow you access to non-restricted areas B and C. Your visit will be limited to Sector Seven."

  I nodded because it seemed the thing to do.

  I was escorted to the elevators and up to the sixth floor to a sterile-looking white office so bright that I had to shield my eyes until I got used to it. The ceiling buzzed loudly with fluorescent lighting. There was nothing on the burnished white walls, not even a calendar with the days neatly X-ed out or a poster of Freud. Three clean white chairs formed a half-circle around a clean white desk. The clean white floor didn't have so much as a shoe scuff. Maybe the room was supposed to make the patients feel comfortable, passive, secure and con-tented as if they were back in the womb, or ascending toward heaven. I thought that sitting in here for any length of time would drive me to scrawling all over the place with Dayglo paint, just before I broke out and hung onto the hood of a visiting car, giggling maniacally with my insane face splashed on the windshield.

  Dr. Brent sat at his desk smoking a pipe despite there being two No Smoking paperweights in front of him. He said to the guard, "Thank you, Philip. Proceed with your rounds." Philip spun on his heel with the well-practiced maneuver of a country music line-dancer and slipped down the hall.

  Dr. Brent's first name turned out to be Brennan. He had a large badge on his white button-up sweater with his name printed evenly in big block letters. Maybe I'd just missed orientation at the asylum, or somebody was having a party on another floor. Maybe that's where all the other folks listed on the sheets were, everybody off having a bash on the ninth floor. Hi! Welcome to Panecraft! My name is Brent! What's yours?

  He stood five foot five or thereabouts and wasn't sure whether he felt more empowered standing behind his desk or sitting there. He sucked his pipe loudly, leaned forward, fell back in his chair, stood in a half-crouch, and went through the motions again. When I sat he abruptly followed suit and dropped heavily into his seat. He was sweating and couldn't quite meet my eyes. A mustache like an unhappy insect skittered beneath his nose, his top lip wriggling as if he had an itch in the middle of his head. He didn't have Tourette's Syndrome and wasn't exhibiting any other signs of psychosis.

  He was just very nervous.

  "I'll have you know this is highly improper, Mr. Kendrick."

  "I understand."

  "You are not a peace officer?"

  "No, I'm not."

  "Then I'm afraid I must object."

  "You must?"

  "Yes."

  "Why must you?"

  That threw him, and he frowned uncertainly. "Why? Because I don't see the value in your visiting at this time. It is severely disruptive to the nature of the situation at hand, grim as it is."

  Doug Hobbes, Lisa's husband, had visited her every day for the week-long period it took the doctors to conclude that she could be tried for the murder of her best friend Karen Bolan. Willie Bolan, Karen's husband, had come to see Lisa as well, before he'd moved out of town.

  "Your duty is to determine if Crummler is legally competent to stand trial for murder, isn't it?"

  "Well, yes, of course."

  "But he is considered innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Isn't he allowed visitors?"

  "Technically, yes, but these circumstances are exceedingly unusual. Though Zebediah Crummler has held a position of some . . . uhm, trust and respect in the community, his inability to clearly articulate the day in question and circumstances thereof have left many unanswered questions. Questions not only pertaining to the crime itself and such events occurring before, during, and directly following the homicide, but also to his state of mind at this same time."

  I got the sinking feeling that Dr. Brennan Brent was seriously trying to snow me.

  "I'd like to see him," I said.

  "For what purpose?"

  "Because I'm his friend."

  The mustache kept crawling until I thought it would scurry right out of the clean white room. "I'm afraid I don't understand." The pipe had gone out but he continued to gnash it, teeth clicking repeatedly.

  "What's to understand? I'm his friend. I'd like to see him.”

  “But he … that is, Mr. Crummler …" The words trailed off, but I could see he wanted to say Crummler has no friends.

  "You appear nervous, Doctor."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "Is Crummler all right?"

  "Certainly. What kind of a foolish question is that to ask? What are you implying? How dare you make such an insinuation."

  I stood and said, "Take me to him, please."

  "And in what capacity are you working on this investigation with the police?"

  "In no capacity."

  He smiled, and showed that the teeth on one side of his mouth were little more than stubs from all the pipe chewing he'd done in his life. He had a presumptuous sneer hiding beneath the skittering bug. "You speak with a fraudulent authority, Mr. Kendrick. You have none here."

  "I never said I did."

  "Well, then . . ."

  "If you deny my request to see Mr. Crummler I can assure you I'll notify the National Board of Psychiatry, the American Medical Association, the American Academy of Psychiatry, and the respective staffs of the Journal of Research in Personality, Psychology Today, and Mental Health magazines."

  "See here, now, if you're attempting to discredit. . ."

  "I'm not finished." I didn't know what the hell I was talking about but it sounded plausible enough. Lowell had told me to fake it, so if we were sending protocol to hell on the bullet train, I might as well be the engineer and ride that sucker all the way down the line. "I'm personal friends with Dr. Asa Hutchings of Channel Three News, and he's been considering a four-part series on the history of Panecraft Hospital and its current standing. There are quite a number of questions surr
ounding procedure at this facility."

  "This is simply outrageous."

  "Will you let me see Crummler?"

  I thought of Lisa Hobbes in here, being asked questions about her miscarriages and her desperate want for a child. They'd go round and round about when and how her husband's affair had been discovered, and exactly what had brought up the rage that carried her to murder her friend and dump the body on my grandmother's lawn. I also wondered how she'd fared in the clean chair beneath these boiling white lights, and what she'd felt when faced with this kind of over-whelming arrogance, finding her name at the top of the list of the first page of every clipboard in the place.

  Dr. Brennan Brent kept staring at me and sweating. He champed the pipe a few more times and finally assented. "All right."

  ~ * ~

  I followed him back into the normally lit world, down the hall to the elevators. We passed a huge room where someone had just finished reading bad poetry aloud and others were commenting on how powerful the imagery of smashed frogs had been. Beautiful murals of cliffs and cloudscapes covered the walls, designed to take the patients' focus off the bars on the windows. I was surprised to see so many young people seated in a semi-circle among other, older, more harried and plagued faces.

  Brent said, "Volunteers working with our non-violent patients. Mostly church-affiliated, though sometimes we get high school students or college freshman hoping to earn credit before formally applying to the psychology department."

  We went up to what I suspected were non-restricted areas B and C of Sector Seven. It was also the twelfth floor. Two more guards met us there, and I was frisked again. We were led down a series of corridors to a cell that looked like little more than the drunk tank in the jail where I'd visited my dad. There was a small plastic window and a slot in the door. I didn't know what I expected, but I didn't expect such overbearing silence. The lights were tapered so that one corner proved to be a bit darker than the rest of the room. I didn't see Crummler anywhere. A guard unlocked the door and ushered us in.