Kill Switch (17 page)

Authors: Neal Baer

BOOK: Kill Switch

2.32Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

C
HAPTER
18

N
ick stood by as Crime Scene Detective Aitken exited Ian's bedroom with a large paper evidence bag, out of which protruded the white comforter.

“How much more?” he asked Aitken.

“This is the last of it,” replied the young cop. “Anything else I can do?”

Nick checked to make sure he'd covered all the bases. Then he spotted Ian's computer monitor across the room and remembered what Claire had told him the previous night about the suspicious circumstances surrounding Tammy's medical records.

“Take the desktop. If he has a laptop or tablet, make sure you grab that too,” Nick told Aitken.

“Anything in particular you want Computer Crimes to look for?” asked Aitken.

“I want to see everything from the past week,” Nick replied in an urgent tone.

“You got it,” Aitken said, then added as he exited the apartment, “At least the bastard won't be doing it to anyone else.”

Alone at last, Nick took a look around. It was as quiet as it had been four hours earlier when he and Claire made their gruesome discovery. Claire was in such shock that Nick called an ambulance and then had to convince her to let the paramedics take her to Manhattan City Hospital.

“I'm a doctor,” Claire argued. “There's nothing wrong with me.”

“You're not much of a doctor if you really believe that,” Nick said.

He realized how much he regretted making that statement, thinking he was too hard on Claire. And he wondered how she was doing.

Nick walked to the bedroom door and took one last look inside. The Crime Scene Unit had taken most of what was bloody, so it didn't look half as bad as it did earlier.

Don't do it, Jenny ... I'm coming ... Pop!

Nick shook his head, trying to dislodge the image.

Her eyes were wide open in instantaneous death. Blood poured from the exit wound in her back, spreading across the white sheets.

He blinked away the memory. He realized that Claire was going through the same horrorâand guiltâhe had experienced when his wife committed suicide. Then he remembered having to clean up the mess his wife left on their bed.

Nobody should have to go through that kind of pain. Ever.

He pulled his cell phone and dialed.

“Peege,” he said into the phone, “it's Nicky. I need a favor. Today. And I'll pay you whatever you need.”

Claire thought she was dreaming. The hushed sounds of the hospital, the exhaustion, the lousy mattress, all brought back memories of her internship when she'd sneak into an empty room in the wee hours and steal a fifteen-minute nap.

But as she opened her eyes and the blurriness dissipated, she realized that this time she was the patient.

“Hello, Claire.”

Groggy, she turned her head. Dr. Curtin, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, sat in a chair against the wall. Claire tried to sit up, thinking she had to look presentable. Curtin stood and put his hand on her shoulder.

“No,” he said in the gentlest, un-Curtin-like voice she'd ever heard from him. “You need to rest.”

“What happened?” Claire managed through her stupor.

“You were in shock when they brought you in,” Curtain said, “so I admitted you.”

“To the Psych Unit?” Claire asked.

“Medicine,” Curtin replied. “Neither of us wants a psych admission on your record.”

Claire nodded. “How long have I been out?”

“About six hours,” Curtin said. “I gave you Ativan and a sleeper.”

“Ian ...”

Curtin nodded and took her hand. “I called his parents. We're taking care of the funeral arrangements.”

For some reason, her mentor looked different. Gaunt. Drained. Clearly Ian's death was taking its toll on him too.

“Are you okay, Doctor?”

“I will be. But right now I'm much more concerned about you.”

Curtin squeezed her hand tenderly.

He can be compassionate when he wants to be,
she thought.

“Claire, I want you to listen to me. In all the years I've been doing this, I've never had a fellow go to the lengths you have not only to help a patient, but also to save others from him. I consider myself a pretty good judge of people, especially of my own students, but I couldn't have been more completely wrong about you.”

Claire looked at him quizzically.

“You proved me wrong. And that doesn't happen often, as I'm sure you know.”

A weak smile broke out on Claire's face. “At least that you admit to.”

It was the first time she'd attempted any kind of humor with Curtin, and it made him grin.

“You need to take some time off. Maybe even the rest of the year.”

“But ... but I'll fall behind,” Claire stammered.

“Don't worry about that,” Curtin assured her. “You can come back next year, or the year after that, or whenever. As long as I'm running this program, there's a place for you here. And I couldn't be prouder to have you as a student and colleague.”

Claire didn't know what to say. Curtin sensed it and got up to leave.

“I'm going to write up your discharge papers. If there's anything you need, you call me.”

“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” Claire replied. “For everything.”

Curtin nodded in a way that made Claire feel better.

“I'm so, so sorry about all this, Claire. In ways you can't even imagine.” He looked down, then back at her. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He turned and walked out.

“Doctor Curtin?” Claire called after him.

Curtin spun around. “Yes?”

“There is one thing.”

Claire opened the door to her apartment, the fear gripping her as she stepped inside.

“The mess is in the bedroom,” Claire said.

“Why don't you let me go in first and have a look, dear?” Dr. Lois Fairborn said gently.

Claire nodded. She was glad Fairborn was there. Coming home alone and having to clean up the slaughterhouse that was her bedroom was the last thing she could possibly bear. She'd asked Curtin if he could arrange for Fairborn to accompany her to the apartment. Curtin not only said he would, but also promised he'd go if Fairborn balked.

Which, of course, Fairborn hadn't. The Vampire had become quite fond of Claire as a result of their therapy sessions, seeing her as a work in progressânot to mention that Fairborn genuinely cared about her.

“Claire? Do you want me to go in first?”

Claire stood motionless in the entry hall, feeling as if she were hanging on to the edge of a cliff.

“Yes. Please.”

“We'll get through this together, okay?” Fairborn said in a reassuring voice.

Claire appreciated Fairborn's encouragement but still felt scared out of her wits and didn't want to go any further.

She could hear Fairborn opening the bedroom door. But there was no gasp of shock, and it took only a moment before Fairborn returned.

“Come with me,” she said.

“You want to help me face my fear?”

“I want to help you overcome it.”

She held out her hand. Tentatively, Claire took it. She let Fairborn lead her to the bedroom.

“Take a look,” she said.

Claire glanced at her shrink, then took a few steps forward toward the threshold. What she saw stunned her. The tableau she'd seen earlier that morning was completely gone, as though some higher power had simply erased it.

The bedroom was spotless. Her bedâ
their bed
âwas made neatly, covered with the same white comforter that, hours before, had been soaked in Ian's blood. But not a drop of blood, nor a trace of what had happened, remained in the room.

Then the door to the bathroom opened. A little girl, about ten years old, walked out. Claire gasped.

“Amy? Is that you?”

“Hi, Claire. Wanna play hopscotch?”

“What are you doing here?”

And then everything slowed down. Another little girl walked out of the bathroom. Claire gasped as the girl grabbed Amy's hand.

Claire was looking at her eight-year-old self.

She moved toward them. And they saw her.

“Hi, ” said Amy. “Are you okay?”

“What's wrong?” asked Little Claire.

Claire looked in the mirror. She saw tears rolling down her face.

“Are you lost?” asked Little Claire.

“Are you looking for someone?” Amy asked.

“I'm looking for you,” Claire said, kneeling in front of Amy. “Where are you?”

“I went away,” Amy said. “A man took me. He was bad.”

“What did he do to you?” Claire asked Amy.

“I can't tell you,” Amy said innocently. “He said I couldn't tell anyone.”

Claire began to sob. “I saw him take you away. I was there. Where did he take you? Please, tell me where.”

“Don't cry,” Amy said in a comforting voice. “He hurt me but now I'm okay. I'm resting.”

Amy turned to Little Claire. “C'mon, Claire. Let's go outside.”

The two smiled at her and headed back toward the bathroom. They disappeared through the door.

“
No! Don't go, please! Not yet! I have to know what happened
.”

She yanked open the bathroom door. Nobody was there. She pulled the curtain to the bathtub aside, as if they were playing hide-and-seek. But the bathtub was empty.

And then Claire saw it. Another door. At the far end of the bathtub. She stepped in. She opened the door and walked through without hesitation.

She was in front of her old house. The home where she grew up, watching herself as an eight-year-old jumping rope with Amy in front of the driveway.

“Claire! Amy!” she called to them.

But they just kept jumping rope. As if they didn't hear her. As if she wasn't there.

Or maybe they're the ones who aren't there. How could they be there?

An unseen hand pulled her back through the door into the bathroom.

She heard this noise, like a pump.

She looked down. A woman sat on the porcelain inside the bathtub. Pulsating, like she was about to explode. Like a million memories were about to burst out and drown her.

Claire felt herself reach up and touch her head. It was open, as if someone had lifted the hood of a car.

She looked in the mirror. Her skull was gone. There was just the pulsating brain above her forehead, ready to pop.

“Are you okay, dear?” came a voice that sounded like her mother's.

Claire turned. Dr. Fairborn was standing there, looking concerned.

“I saw them. I saw
her
,” she said.

“Who?” asked Fairborn.

“Amy,” Claire said, as if Fairborn should know. “The girl I killed when I was little.”

“Claireâ”

“She was my best friend, and she was kidnapped right in front of me. I didn't do anything to stop it and now she's dead. I killed her. And now I've killed my boyfriend because Todd Quimby got jealous.”

“You didn't kill anyone,” Fairborn reassured her.

“But I did!” Claire exclaimed, tears flowing again. “I made myself look like a whoreâhis whoreâbecause I wanted you and Dr. Curtin to respect me.”

Claire felt herself spinning. She was weeping now. Fairborn led her into the living room and sat her down on the sofa.

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” Claire sobbed.

“There's nothing wrong with you,” Fairborn assured her.

“But I don't do this. I don't cry ...”

“You've shut down your emotions for such a long time, and now they're coming to the surface. The best thing you can do is let them out.”