Misery Loves Company (17 page)

“STAY STILL.”

An odd request, since she didn’t think she could move anything except her hands. And they felt like they were in gloves.

“Please. Don’t move.”

Jules opened her eyes. Everything was fuzzy at first. Then he came into focus but was quickly blurred again by tears.

Patrick looked at her as he fiddled with something on her hand. “You’re awake. That’s good.”

“Why can’t I move?” Her voice was hoarse. Panic surged through her as she tried to move her arms but couldn’t.

“Stay still.”

“Have you tied me up? Is that it?” The tears spilled down her cheeks. “I thought I was in heaven. I thought I was with Jason.”

He looked at her calmly, still with her left hand in his. “You’re not tied up.”

Jules tried to look down to see what was rendering her unable to move. Blankets. Lots of them. Apparently wrapped tightly around her.

She was back in the bedroom. Back staring at the terrifying words on the ceiling.

“You almost froze to death,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve had to treat you for frostbite. Luckily I spent some time in Alaska researching a book, so I know how.”

She looked down to find him unwrapping gauze from her hands. “They hurt,” she whispered.

“I can only imagine,” he said. “I’ve never experienced it myself. Do you feel a prickling sensation?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Let’s see what we have here.” Patrick lifted her hand, and she could see that her skin was partly white, partly the color of a ripe peach, and her knuckles looked shiny. On her pointer finger there was a blister. He studied it for a moment. “The blister isn’t a good sign.” He pressed on the skin. “It’s still mostly soft, except for your knuckles. Those are concerning me.” He put her hand on the bed. “I believe it’s superficial frostbite on your hands. You’ll be in pain, but I don’t think the hand will have to be amputated.”

“Amputated?”

“Let’s hope not.” He smiled reassuringly, then began taking blankets off her. At least four. Then unwrapped two from around her body. Jules sat up, trying to assist, but was surprised at how weak she felt. And her hand hurt. She winced.

“Try not to move your hand at all,” he said.

“My feet hurt too.”

“Your ankles,” he said, glancing down at them. “They’re not as well off. You need to leave them wrapped. You’re not going to be able to walk for . . . until they heal.”

“Maybe I should see a doctor.”

“That’s not going to work out so well.”

“It’s not an excuse. I’m really hurt.”

“I can give you more pain medication.”

“No. No, I don’t want any. It makes me feel weird.”

“Suit yourself.” He rose and went to the door. “I’ve got some broth heating for you. You’ll want to drink, and then we work.”

Jules lay back and groaned. “Work. I don’t want to work. I’m tired. My ankle feels like someone took an ax to it.”

He stepped back in the room. “Juliet, we are running out of time.”

Jules laughed. “Running out of time? That’s all we have here is time. Or the absence of time, I should say.”

“By now, they know you are missing. I am not an easy man to find in the winter. But someone will come looking, someone who has the will to find you.”

“Don’t count on it,” she mumbled.

“And when they find you, they find me,” he said. “Then it will be too late.”

“Too late for what?” Jules asked. But he walked away.

The home was stately, just like what Chris imagined really smart literary types lived in. It had white columns in the front, leading to two tall oak doors. The yard was enclosed by an iron fence, but the gate was open.

Chris pulled his truck into the circular drive and got out. It was never comfortable dropping by unannounced, but he felt it was better this way. Sometimes the element of surprise worked in law enforcement’s favor.

He rang the doorbell. It sounded like cathedral bells.

A man in an expensive suit answered the door. Chris wiped his sweaty hands against his jeans in case there was going to be a need for a handshake.

“Yes?”

“My name is Chris Downey. I’m with the Wissberry police department.”

“Identification, please.”

Chris held up his badge. He was really hoping he wouldn’t have to do this, but the man looked to be in a perpetual state of skepticism.

His gaze steadied on the badge for a moment, then took its time returning to Chris. “Your business here?”

“I would like to talk to Mrs. Patterson.”

“About?”

Ugh. But it was the last card he had to play. “Patrick Reagan.”

The man’s expression flickered with recognition and concern. “I see,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in. Please, have a seat in here and I will summon Mrs. Patterson. I’m Vincent Lowell, her assistant.”

From the small sitting room, Chris observed a giant library the next room over, complete with a sliding wooden ladder. The house smelled like a flower garden. It was kind of making his nose itch.

Distantly he heard voices. Then footsteps coming toward the room. Soon, a woman entered. Chris wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he was surprised by what he saw.

She was dressed sharply and looked to be less than fifty years old, though she wore a lot of makeup, her eyes rimmed with so much black that it was the first thing he noticed about her.

“Expecting someone older?” she asked with a mild smile.

“Yes. Sorry. I . . . I just . . .”

“Ike’s first wife died of old age. And then he married me. We were married for twenty-five years.” She offered a hand. “Leona Patterson.”

“Sergeant Downey, with the Wissberry PD.”

“That’s a ways, isn’t it?”

“Not too bad.”

“Still, you must have important business.” She waved her
hand, indicating they should sit. “May we offer you something to drink?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

The assistant left and she turned her full attention to Chris. “Vincent said you’re here about Patrick Reagan.”

Chris nodded, trying to find the words to explain the situation without saying too much. He wasn’t sure that was going to be possible.

“We’re working on a case in Wissberry, where Mr. Reagan lives, as you know. We think he may have some information, but we’ve been unsuccessful at locating him. Apparently he just vanishes into thin air in the winter.”

Leona smiled knowingly.

“I was hoping that you might be able to help us locate him.”

“Why do you think I would know?”

“I met with Mr. Reagan’s current agent, Mr. Bentley Marrow.” Chris smirked as Leona let out a heavy sigh of disapproval. “Obviously you feel the same way about Marrow as Patrick does?”

She lifted her chin. “For different reasons. But no, I do not care for the man.”

“Do you maintain any contact with Mr. Reagan?”

She eyed Chris. “Why? Has he finally gone off the deep end?”

“Do you think he might?”

“You don’t know many writers, do you, Officer Downey?”
She spoke with a haughtiness that made her seem older than she was.

“Rick Castle. But he seems stable, only a little lovesick.”

“I see,” she said, ignoring the joke. “You have to understand
 
—what makes them good at writing often makes them incapable of living in the very world about which they write.”

“Is that why he escapes to his cabin every winter?”

“Oh, that cabin. If I never have to hear about that again, I’ll be happy.”

“Is it really impossible to get ahold of this man? His home was ransacked. Not even his maid knows how to reach him.”

“His house was ransacked, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” she said after a brief moment of pondering, “that is Patrick Reagan. The man who controls his universe.” She sighed. “His wife died. Did they tell you that?”

“Yes. That Mr. Reagan didn’t take it well. They also told us about Ike’s death.”

“Sidney Sheldon once said that a blank piece of paper is God’s way of telling writers how hard it is to be God.”

“I’m not following.”

“Writers play God, don’t you see? They create their people, their creatures, and they lay out the plans for their entire lives. They then send trouble into their paths. Lots of trouble. Why?”

Chris shrugged.

“Because it is the only way to make the character grow, so that he is capable of achieving the end result. The writer,
in the end, works all things out for the good of the main character. The character accomplishes more than he thought he could. He has acted heroically or solved the unsolvable. He continues on into the white space of literature, where he will live out his days in happiness.”

Chris cleared his throat. “Okay.”

“So you can imagine what happens to a fragile mind and soul, who has been used to creating happy endings for those he cares about, when his own world becomes uncontrollable. When he realizes that although he has created many happy endings, he will not get one of his own.”

“You’re saying you think Patrick Reagan is having some sort of nervous breakdown?”

“I couldn’t say. I haven’t spoken with Patrick since Ike’s funeral.”

“Do you have a sense that something might be wrong?”

She looked out a window, her eyes distant with thought. “I know that when Amelia passed away, it was very difficult. She suffered an agonizing death and there was nothing he could do. Since then, I’ve only heard snippets about what is happening with him, through certain circles. I imagine that he buried himself in work. Rumor was some police procedural thriller he was working on. He hasn’t written well since Amelia died. And who knows? Perhaps he’s not capable of writing anymore. Not without Amelia.”

“Did she write with him?”

Leona thought for a moment. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Can you explain it?”

“It was sometimes like she was the left side of his brain. The part of him that put the pieces together in some logical way. Patrick was notorious for being very unstructured in his writing. He’d write scenes on napkins and take copious notes on scrap pieces of paper. He’d write scenes out of order. And he’d put it all in this cardboard box. Supposedly Amelia would take it and sort it and help him figure out how to put it all together.”

“Do you know anything about a writer named Blake Timble?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s not yet published but supposed to be the next big thing. There’s evidence that Patrick might be upset by him coming onto the literary scene.”

She smiled and shook her head. “That doesn’t surprise me. Ike used to tell me how the younger writers got on Patrick’s nerves. He hated their style, their disregard for true literary gumption. I remember one book in particular. It was published with no capitalizations and no punctuation. One long, run-on sentence
 
—the whole thing. It received awards and accolades. Patrick was quite vocal about his dislike for it.”

Chris leaned forward. “Mrs. Patterson
 
—”

“Please. Leona.”

“Leona. Patrick seems kind of unstable. Is there a chance he might harm someone, even inadvertently?”

“Why?”

“I can’t give you the details, but there is a young woman
missing and we think Patrick might at the very least have some information that could help us find her. The problem is, we can’t find
him
.” Chris studied her intently. “Is there any chance you know where this mysterious cabin is located?”

Leona looked away.

“We just want to talk to him. That’s all. We just need to find this woman.”

Leona narrowed her eyes, watching him carefully. “Ike and Patrick had a very special relationship. A friendship that few people get a chance to have in their lives. Honestly, it was hard to be jealous because it was so genuine. Every time Ike got a chance to see Patrick, his face would light up and you could just see life breathed into him, even in his older years.”

The assistant suddenly showed up in the doorway of the room, like a prompt.

“I must confess, I’ve been angry for quite some time,” Leona went on.

The assistant stood there, making Chris nervous and distracted. He tried to focus on Leona. “Angry?”

“The publishing house has been stealing royalties from Patrick’s books, royalties that belong to me. They’ve been holding his last royalty check until he produces the next book. Why any agent would allow that into a contract, only Bentley knows. But the fact of the matter is, I live off the royalties that Ike made through Patrick’s books. And as you can imagine,” she said, waving her hand about the room, “this place needs quite the underwriting. So in short, Officer
Downey, I am desperate to find Patrick Reagan myself and see what is holding him up on this book.”