Thomasina could hardly contain herself. Here she was, a celebrity on international television; there was no way she could fail to obey Reverend Bobby’s command. She strained her ears. The organ was playing softly. From somewhere she heard a whisper: “Jim . . . Jim . . . Jim . . .”
Thomasina straightened her shoulders, threw out her arms and cried, “The name I have been seeking is Jim!”
60
SARAH HAD TOLD Justin Donnelly about Thomasina Perkins and the reason for her appearance on the “Church of the Airways” program. At ten o’clock on Sunday morning Donnelly turned on the television set and at the last minute decided to tape the program.
Thomasina did not appear until the hour was almost over. Then, incredulously, Donnelly witnessed the Reverend Bobby’s histrionics and Perkins’ revelation that “Jim” was the abductor’s name. That guy claims he can bring on miracles and he couldn’t even get Laurie’s name straight, Donnelly thought in disgust as he snapped off the set. He referred to her as Lee. Nevertheless he carefully labeled the video cassette and put it in his briefcase.
Sarah phoned a few minutes later. “I don’t like to call you at home,” she apologized, “but I have to ask. What did you think? Is there any chance that Miss Perkins was right about the name?”
“No,” Donnelly said flatly. He heard her sigh.
“I’m still going to ask the Harrisburg police to run ‘Jim’ through the computers,” she told him. “There might be a file on a child abuser by that name who was active seventeen years ago.”
“I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. The Perkins woman was taking a wild guess. After all, she had Almighty God on the line, didn’t she? How’s Laurie doing?”
“Pretty well.” She sounded cautious.
“Did she watch the program?”
“No, she refuses to listen to any kind of gospel music. Besides, I’m trying to keep her mind off all this. We’re going to play a round of golf. It’s fairly pleasant out considering it’s February.”
“I always meant to try golf. That should be relaxing for both of you. Has Laurie been writing in the journal?”
“She’s upstairs scribbling away now.”
“Good. See you tomorrow.” Donnelly hung up and decided that the best way to shake his feeling of restlessness was to take a long walk. He realized that for the first time since he’d lived in New York, the prospect of a totally unstructured Sunday was not appealing to him.
61
THOMASINA HAD HOPED that after the “Church of the Airways” program the Reverend Bobby Hawkins and his lovely wife, Carla, might invite her to lunch at a nice place like the Tavern on the Green and maybe suggest that they drive her around New York to see the sights. Thomasina hadn’t been to New York in thirty years.
But something happened. The minute the cameras were turned off, Carla whispered something to Reverend Bobby and they both looked upset. The upshot of it was that they sort of brushed Thomasina off with a hurried goodbye and thank you and keep praying. Then an escort brought her to the car that would take her to the airport.
On the ride, Thomasina tried to console herself with the glory of her appearance on the program, of the new stories she’d have to tell. Maybe “Good Morning, Harrisburg” would want her back to talk about the miracle.
Thomasina sighed. She was tired. She’d barely closed her eyes last night for the excitement and now her head ached and she wanted a cup of tea.
She arrived at the airport with nearly two hours to wait for her plane and went into one of the cafeterias. Orange juice, oatmeal, bacon, eggs, a Danish and a pot of tea restored her usual good nature. It had been a very exciting experience. The Reverend Bobby seemed so Godlike that she’d shivered when he prayed over her.
She pushed back her empty plate, poured a second cup of tea and, while she sipped it, thought of the miracle. God had spoken directly to her, saying, “Jim, Jim.”
Not for the world would she contradict anything the Almighty told her, but as Thomasina dipped the paper napkin in her water glass and scrubbed away at a spot of bacon grease on her good blue dress she was ashamed of the guilty thought that imposed itself in her mind: That just isn’t the name I remember hearing.
62
ON MONDAY MORNING, ten days after her husband’s funeral, Karen Grant entered the travel agency, a heavy stack of mail in her arms.
Anne Webster and Connie Santini were already there. They had been discussing once again the fact that Karen had not invited them to join her at the reception even though they clearly heard the college president tell her to be sure to include any close friends who had attended the service.
Anne Webster still puzzled over the omission. “I’m certain it was just that Karen was so upset.”
Connie had other ideas. She was sure Karen didn’t want any of the faculty asking them about the travel agency. It would have been just like Anne to artlessly say that business had been terrible for several years. Connie would have bet her bottom dollar that at Clinton College, Karen had given the impression that Global Travel was on a level with Perillo Tours.
The discussion ended with Karen’s arrival. She greeted them briefly and said, “The dean had someone pick up the mail at the house. There’s an awful pile. Most of it sympathy cards, I suppose. I hate to read them, but I guess I can’t avoid it.”
With an exaggerated sigh, she settled at her desk and reached for a letter opener. Minutes later she gasped, “Oh, my God.”
Connie and Anne jumped up and rushed to her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Call the police in Clinton,” Karen snapped. Her face was the color of chalk. “It’s a letter from Laurie Kenyon, signing herself ‘Leona’ again. Now that crazy girl is threatening to kill me!”
63
THE MONDAY MORNING SESSION with Laurie was unproductive. She’d been quiet and depressed. She told Justin about playing golf. “I was terrible, Dr. Donnelly. I just couldn’t concentrate. So many loud thoughts.” But he couldn’t get her to discuss the loud thoughts. None of the alters would talk to him either.
When Laurie went into art therapy, Sarah told Donnelly that she had begun to prepare her for the grand jury hearing. “I think everything is really starting to sink in,” she explained. “Then last night I caught her going through some photo albums she keeps in her room.” Sarah’s eyes began to fill with tears that she hastily blinked away. “I told her it wasn’t a great idea to look at pictures of Mom and Dad just now.”
They left at noon. At two o’clock, Sarah phoned. In the background, Justin Donnelly could hear Laurie screaming.
Her voice trembling, Sarah said, “Laurie’s hysterical. She must have been going through the albums again. There’s a picture she’s torn to bits.”
Now Donnelly could make out what Laurie was shrieking. “I promise I won’t tell. I promise I won’t tell.”
“Give me directions to your house,” he snapped. “And then get two Valiums into her.”
* * *
Sophie let him in.
“They’re in Laurie’s room, Doctor.” She led the way upstairs. Sarah was sitting on the bed, holding a sedated Laurie.
“I made her take the Valiums,” Sarah told him. “She quieted down, but now she’s almost out of it.” She released Laurie and eased her head onto the pillow.
Justin bent over Laurie and began to examine her. Her pulse was erratic, her breathing shallow, her pupils dilated, her skin cold to the touch. “She’s in shock,” he said quietly. “Do you know what brought it on?”
“No. She seemed to be all right after we got home. She said she was going to write in her journal. Then I heard her screaming. I think she must have started going through the album because she tore up a picture. There are pieces of it all over her desk.”
“I want those pieces collected,” Justin said. “Try not to miss any of them.” He began to tap Laurie’s face. “Laurie, it’s Dr. Donnelly. I want you to talk to me. Tell me your full name.”
She did not respond.
Donnelly’s fingers tapped her face with greater force. “Tell me your name,” he said insistently. Finally Laurie opened her eyes. As they focused on him, they took on a surprised expression followed by one of relief.
“Dr. Donnelly,” she murmured. “When did you come?”
Sarah felt herself go limp. The last hour had been agony. The sedative had calmed Laurie’s hysteria, but then her total withdrawal was even more frightening. Sarah had been terrified that Laurie was slipping so far away she would not make it back.
Sophie was standing in the doorway. “Would a cup of tea be good for her?” she asked softly.
Justin heard. He looked over his shoulder. “Please.”
Sarah went over to the desk. The picture was virtually shredded. In those few moments from the time Laurie started shrieking till Sarah and Sophie reached her, she had managed to reduce it to minuscule pieces. It would be a miracle if it could be put together.
“I don’t want to stay here,” Laurie said.
Sarah whirled around. Laurie was sitting up, hugging herself. “I can’t stay here. Please.”
“Okay,” Justin said calmly. “Let’s go downstairs. We could all use a cup of tea.” He supported Laurie as she got to her feet. They were halfway down the stairs, Sarah behind them, when the chimes rang in the foyer signaling someone was at the front door.
Sophie bustled to answer it. Two uniformed policemen were on the porch. They were carrying a warrant for Laurie’s arrest. By contacting the widow of Allan Grant with a threatening letter, she had violated the terms of her bail and it had been revoked.
* * *
That evening, Sarah sat in Justin Donnelly’s office in the clinic. “If you hadn’t been there, Laurie would be in a jail cell right now,” she told him. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
It was true. When Laurie was brought before the judge, Donnelly had convinced him that she was under intense psychological stress and required hospitalization in a secured facility. The judge had amended his order, to permit inpatient hospitalization. On the drive from New Jersey to New York, she had been in a trance-like sleep.
Justin chose his words carefully. “I’m glad to have her here. She needs to be watched and monitored constantly right now.”
“To keep her from sending threatening letters?”
“And to keep her from harming herself.”
Sarah got up. “I’ve taken enough of your time for one day, Doctor. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
It was nearly nine o’clock. “There’s a place around the corner where the menu is good and the service is fast,” Donnelly told her. “Why don’t you grab a quick bite with me and then I’ll send for a car to take you home?”
Sarah had already phoned Sophie to tell her that Laurie was checked into the hospital and to be sure to keep her own plans for the evening. The thought of something to eat and a cup of coffee with Justin Donnelly instead of going home to the empty house was comforting. “I’d like that,” she said simply.
* * *
Laurie was standing at the window of her room. She liked the room. It wasn’t large, so she could see all of it in one glance. She felt safe in it. The outside window didn’t open. She had tried it. There was an interior window that looked out on the hallway and the nurses’ station. It had a drape but she’d left it partially open. She didn’t ever want to be in the dark again.
What had happened today? The last thing she remembered was sitting at the desk writing. She’d turned the page and then . . .
And then it all went blank until I saw Dr. Donnelly bending over me, she thought. Then we were going down the stairs and the police came.
The police said she had written a letter to Allan Grant’s wife. Why would I write to her? Laurie wondered. They said I threatened her. That’s silly, she thought. When would I have written the letter? When would I have mailed it?
If Karen Grant had received a threatening letter in the last few days it was proof that somebody else must have sent it. She couldn’t wait to point that out to Sarah.
Laurie leaned her forehead against the window. It felt so cool. She was tired now and would go to bed. A few people were on the sidewalk, hurrying down the block, their heads down. You could tell it was chilly out.
She saw a man and a woman cross the street in front of the clinic. Was that Sarah and the doctor? She couldn’t be sure.
She turned, crossed the room and got into bed, pulling the covers around her. Her eyes were so heavy. It was good to drift away. It would be so good never to have to wake up again.
64
ON TUESDAY MORNING, Brendon Moody drove to the Clinton College campus. His plan was to canvas the residents of the building where Laurie had her studio apartment. After Allan Grant’s funeral, he’d given it the once-over. Five years old, it had been erected to serve the needs of upperclassmen. The rooms were good-sized and included a kitchenette and private bath. It was popular housing for students like Laurie who could afford to pay the surcharge for privacy.
Laurie’s apartment had been thoroughly searched and then released by lab technicians from the prosecutor’s office. Brendon made it his first stop.
It was totally disheveled. The bed was stripped. The door of the closet was ajar and the clothing looked as though it had been examined and replaced haphazardly on the hangers. The drawers of the dresser were partially open. The contents of the desk were strewn on its surface.
Moody knew that the investigators had taken the typewriter on which the letters to Allan Grant had been written and the rest of the stationery. He knew that the bed sheets and Laurie’s bloodstained clothing and watchband and bracelet had been confiscated.
What then was he looking for?
If asked the question, Brendon Moody would have said “Nothing,” and meant that he had no particular agenda in mind. He looked around, getting a feel for the premises.
It was obvious that in its normal condition the room was quite attractive. Tie-back, floor-length ivory curtains, an ivory dust ruffle on the bed, framed prints of Monet and Manet, paintings on the walls, a half-dozen golf trophies on a shelf over the bookcase. She had not stuck pictures of classmates and friends in the mirror frame over the dresser, the way so many students did. There was only a single family picture on the desk. Brendon studied the photograph. The Kenyons. He’d known the parents. This shot must have been taken in the pool area behind their house. The family had obviously been happy and content together.
Put yourself in Laurie’s place, Moody thought. The family is destroyed. You blame yourself. You’re vulnerable and latch onto a guy who’s kind to you, who’s both an attractive man and old enough to be a sort of father figure, and then he rejects you. And you explode.
Open and shut. Brendon prowled around, examining, evaluating. He stood over the tub in the bathroom. Traces of blood had been found in it. Laurie had been smart enough to wash the sheets and her clothing here, bring them down to the dryer, then fold and put them away. She’d tried to clean the watchband too. Brendon knew what the prosecutor could do with that evidence. Try to prove panic and confusion when the killer had systematically attempted to destroy evidence.
As Brendon was about to leave the room, he looked around one more time. He had found absolutely nothing, not one shred of evidence that could be used to help Laurie. Why did he have the nagging sense that somehow, someway, he was missing something?
65
SARAH HAD a sleepless night. The day kept replaying in her mind: Laurie’s bloodcurdling screams; the torn picture; the policemen at the door; Laurie being taken out in handcuffs; Justin swearing he’d get her released in his custody as they followed the squad car to Clinton. It was dawn when Sarah finally slept, an uneasy, troubled sleep in which she dreamt of courtrooms and guilty verdicts.
She woke up at eight o’clock, showered, put on a tan cashmere shirt, matching slacks and dark brown ankle boots and went downstairs. Sophie was already in the kitchen. Coffee was brewing. In the breakfast area, a fl
owered pitcher held freshly squeezed orange juice. A compote of cutup oranges, grapefruit, apples and cantaloupe was attractively arranged in a Tiffany bowl. An English toast rack was positioned next to the toaster.
Everything looks so normal, Sarah thought. It’s just as though Mom and Dad and Laurie will come downstairs any minute. She pointed to the toast rack. “Sophie, remember how Dad used to call that thing a toast cooler. He was right.”
Sophie nodded. Her round, unlined face showing distress, she poured juice into Sarah’s glass. “I was worried last night—not being here when you got back. Was Laurie really willing to go into the hospital?”
“She did seem to understand that it was the clinic or jail.” Wearily Sarah rubbed her forehead. “Something happened yesterday. I don’t know what it was, but Laurie said she’ll never spend another night in her bedroom. Sophie, if that woman who came back to see the house the other day wants it, I’m going to sell.”
She did not hear the expected protest. Instead Sophie sighed. “I think maybe you’re right. This isn’t a happy home anymore. Maybe it’s too much to expect it to be after what happened in September.”
It was both a relief and a blow to realize that Sophie agreed with her. Sarah finished the juice, swallowing over the large lump in her throat. “I’ll skip everything except the coffee.” A thought struck her. “Do you think you found most of the pieces of that picture Laurie tore up yesterday?”
Sophie’s lips creased in a triumphant smile. “Better than that. I put it together.” She produced it. “See, I assembled it on the sheet of paper and then, when I was sure it was right, I glued it. Only trouble is the pieces were so small that the glue ran all over them. It’s kind of hard to tell much about it.”
“Why it’s just a picture of Laurie when she was a kid,” Sarah said. “That certainly can’t be what caused her to get so upset.” She studied it, then shrugged helplessly. “I’ll put it in my briefcase right now. Doctor Donnelly wants to see it.”