Disturbance Read online

  “Hard to say. Doesn’t fit treating you for your wounds.”

  “No … I guess not.”

  “You were moved from wherever you were shot, it seems.”

  “The other detectives mentioned that, but I don’t remember anything about it.”

  “Funny thing is, some of that area was washed down, which a gang probably wouldn’t take time to do. Our crime scene evidence team said they can’t even find the spatter.”

  “Spatter?”

  “When a person gets shot and bleeds—and you must have bled somewhere—the blood makes patterns as it scatters or falls. We’ll find everything from fine spray to droplets to pools of it.”

  “I wish I could be more helpful.”

  “Hmm.” Harriman made some notes, then said, “Our crime scene team will keep looking for evidence, of course. And we’ll be searching for any remaining traces of blood that might match up to you.”

  “Me? But I’m the victim here!”

  “Exactly. We have to make sure that if we go to court, we can tell the judge that any bloodstains we find and examine are yours, especially since there have been other crimes connected to your buildings. Don’t want a defense attorney saying it was blood from an earlier victim.”

  “Oh.”

  “And especially since the doctors here say that you were treated more than an hour before you were found, we’ll have to establish exactly where the attack on you took place. You see what I mean? Without physical evidence of your presence, it could be claimed you weren’t there at all. And let me tell you,” Harriman said, watching him steadily, “that would be awkward.”

  Deflect. “Will the crime lab need to take a DNA sample from me?”

  “It’s a painless process, but come to think of it—I can’t speak for the investigators on your case, but I imagine we’ll just get DNA off your bloody clothing. That was all taken to the lab while you were in the ER.”

  “Oh,” Quinn said again, then forced himself to sound nonchalant as he added, “that makes it easy, then.”

  “Yes, it does,” Harriman agreed. “Anyway, all that washing things down outside your buildings makes me wonder about the shooter and his plans.”

  “Of course. By the way, is this your case? I thought …”

  Harriman didn’t smile, yet again Quinn sensed he was amused. Amused? How could that be?

  “No,” the detective said. “I’m pursuing something else. We’re just trying to figure out if a couple of our cases may be related. Speaking of relatives, strange thing …”

  Quinn waited.

  “You remember Cade Morrissey?”

  “Of course. His body was found in one of my buildings. As was his mother’s. That horrified me. That’s exactly why I wanted to ensure there was better security. That’s also why I wanted to check on the place. Security can grow lax over time. I’ll admit I was just protecting my property when I stopped by last night. I really didn’t think the killer was likely to come back to use the buildings after you discovered the bodies there. Do you think I was wrong?”

  Harriman studied him for a moment, then said, “I doubt very much that the killer or killers of Marilyn Foster and Cade Morrissey attacked you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Quinn asked, hoping he had infused the right amount of panic into his voice. It helped to know that Harriman was at least half wrong.

  “You’re alive.”

  Quinn knew he was on dangerous ground. Better take another tack. “You asked me about Cade Morrissey.”

  “Yes. Had you ever met him when he was alive?”

  “The detectives asked me that when his body was found. No, I didn’t know him. At least, not that I recall.”

  “He was Nicholas Parrish’s son.”

  “Nicholas Parrish? The serial killer? You’re not serious!”

  “I am as serious as can be. Lab was backed up, so it took a while to get the DNA results or we would have known sooner.”

  “That’s—that’s so strange. That the son of a serial killer would end up being murdered, I mean.”

  “It is. But it gets stranger yet. Got some other results just this morning. This time, given that it was so high-profile, the lab put a rush on it for us. Turns out Kai Loudon is Parrish’s son, too.”

  Quinn did his best to look blank, then said, “The one with the backyard burials. Right?”

  “Yes. Former burial sites—no question about that. We haven’t found entire bodies yet, but we don’t have a lot of doubt about what went on there. My wife was one of the reporters who broke that case, by the way. But you probably knew that.”

  Careful, Quinn thought. “Irene Kelly. Who doesn’t know about her?”

  Harriman said nothing for a moment, letting the silence stretch, then said, “Irene connected the dots early on. Some people dismissed her ideas, thought she might be a little rattled about Parrish’s escape. But she was absolutely right. There is a connection between Nick Parrish’s escape and the victim left in the trunk of a car parked near our home. Because of the artwork on the bodies and other factors, we didn’t need anyone to point out connections between that victim and the murders of Marilyn Foster and Cade Morrissey. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  “No, I have to admit I don’t.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. No one was expecting to find out Loudon had buried people in his backyard, or that he was Parrish’s son.”

  “You’re sure that he is related to Parrish?”

  “Yes. We have Parrish’s DNA on file, of course, and you really can’t live in a place as long as Loudon did and not leave your DNA behind. So even though Loudon had no criminal record as an adult, we got a familial match.”

  “Wow. Imagine that.”

  “Imagine. Of the two children we know about, one helped him escape, and the other ended up dead in one of your buildings.”

  Harriman paced a few steps, then turned back to Quinn and said, “Cade Morrissey had drawings of moths on him, and similar drawings were found not only on Cade’s mother’s body but also on Lisa King, the third victim—she was probably the first of the three to be killed, actually. And it seems likely that one of the last people to see Lisa King alive was Kai Loudon.”

  “So you’ve solved three murders and identified one of the people who helped Parrish escape,” Quinn said.

  “No, I’m not so sure we have.”

  “Why not?”

  “The artwork on three of those victims? It’s just not likely that it could have survived if those victims had been buried. We think the person who used your property was someone who was careful and very clean and neat. He went to a lot of trouble to preserve his artwork, yet there aren’t bloodstains on the walls inside the building or any other sign that those three victims were killed there.

  “So even though there’s a genetic connection between Loudon and one of those victims, it seems strange to us that Loudon would have this one M.O. of butchering people in his basement and burying them without so much as a plastic sheet wrapped around them, and then a separate operation going on in one of your buildings, with an entirely different M.O. You see what I mean?”

  “I suppose so …”

  “Plus, we’re doing a lot of research into Loudon, and so far we haven’t come up with anything like art training in his background. His former teachers say he was terrible at it. More of a computer and electronics guy. And our experts agree that the work done on the bodies in your buildings was not amateurish. Someone who really knew what he was doing drew those moths.”

  “Is all of this questioning going on because I once considered pursuing an art degree?” Quinn asked. “Perhaps I should contact my attorney.”

  “You can always do that, of course. But what makes you think you’re about to be placed under arrest?”

  “Victims in my buildings? Artwork?”

  “No, I’d never proceed on anything as flimsy as a coincidence like that. As you’ve pointed out, you’re a victim. In f
act, you were nearly killed on the same night my wife disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “She was kidnapped.”

  Quinn frowned and summoned all of his ability to put sincerity into his voice. “Detective Harriman, I’m so sorry to hear that. Sorry and shocked. How did it happen?”

  “I can’t really discuss it. Some details will be on the news today.” He glanced at the television behind him, mounted high on the wall. “Want me to see if I can find something about it now?”

  “No, no thank you—if you don’t mind. This is all very upsetting. As I’m sure it is for you.”

  “Absolutely. Anyway, it just makes us wonder.”

  “Wonder what?”

  “How many sons Parrish has. And if there might be connections.” Harriman smiled, but there was no amusement in it. “I’ll let you get your rest. Thanks for talking to me.”

  “I don’t know that I did you much good. But please let me know if I can be of help.”

  “Oh, I will,” Harriman said.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I had the rules explained to me at gunpoint.

  Parrish didn’t state them right away. He started with a long lecture about my helplessness, his control, his anticipation of his revenge on me—which would be slow, painful, and humiliating to me. He told me that it was useless to try to escape. That I was his slave now. That I would die, but first I would be brought to the point of wanting death more than anything on earth.

  I stayed silent. Even knowing that he would enjoy himself more if I showed fear, I still couldn’t hide it.

  Fear wasn’t all I felt, though, and I found myself hiding those other reactions more carefully. They were mostly a mixture of anger and hope. It wouldn’t do to let him see either.

  I remembered Rachel’s self-defense lessons and positioned myself so that I was balanced over my feet, ready to move quickly. I kept hoping that, while he was going on and on about himself and his power and my weakness, he’d get a little too close, let his aim drop a little, slacken his grip a bit—maybe I’d get a chance to take the gun away from him.

  He suddenly paused, smiled a smile I didn’t like much, and stared at me.

  I stared back.

  He looked away first.

  I was doing my damnedest to hide the spike of exhilaration that brought me when he started back in on the rules.

  The rules weren’t too complicated.

  I was to attend to Violet’s needs and help out with the care of Kai. I didn’t have the slightest idea of what he meant by “care of Kai,” but I wasn’t going to ask. Kai would be brought to this room when necessary. I would not be allowed out of this set of three rooms for any reason until Parrish decided to let me out. Parrish would make use of me for whatever purpose he chose by whomever he chose, but he was going to give me a few days to think about what that meant.

  He smiled again but left without a rematch of the staring contest.

  He locked the door.

  Now that he was out of sight, I allowed myself to sink into the chair in Violet’s room. I was still not fully myself. The drug, the fear, the missing hours, the disruption of my normal sleep-wake cycle—I knew all of that had left me unsettled. But the longer I was awake, the more I began to set aside that earlier sense of hopelessness and defeat.

  I was also processing some surprising observations:

  Parrish looked like hell. When I stopped thinking about his whole catalog of savagery, and thought just about what had happened in his life over the last few years, I realized it only made sense that his injuries and incarceration would have taken a toll on him.

  I couldn’t afford to ignore the rest of his history or pretend that I didn’t know what he was capable of doing to anyone he saw as an enemy or prey. It could be fatal to underestimate his dangerousness, or to forget how much he enjoyed the suffering of others. Still, not only was he not Godzilla but he wasn’t Nicholas Parrish. Or at least not as I remembered him.

  Which nevertheless left me locked in a room with someone who had apparently once found him lovable, although she didn’t seem so fond of him now. If she could be trusted. For all I knew, Parrish knew Morse code and had been communicating with her all along.

  I moved back toward Violet. She was still awake, looking at me.

  “Do you know where we are?”

  Big lodge. Camp. San Bernardinos?

  That gave me a little hope. The San Bernardino Mountains had remote areas in them, but if this was a camp, there was a road nearby that was probably large enough for buses, and that meant there might also be neighbors or even a small town not too far away.

  “Any idea what Parrish means by ‘care of Kai’?”

  Kai was shot.

  A memory of hearing gunfire came to me. “Who shot him?”

  Don’t know. Quinn, maybe.

  “Quinn?”

  One of the brothers.

  “Quinn Moore? The real estate developer?”

  Don’t know. Has lots of money.

  For a few moments, I found it hard to take in. Quinn Moore was well known in Las Piernas—famous as a young man who had inherited a successful but narrowly focused commercial real estate sales company and expanded it into a local powerhouse, transforming blighted industrial buildings into modern lofts, shops, and restaurants.

  But then I set aside his public persona, the one he wanted to sell, and thought of the bodies found on his property. Still, the police said he was not suspected in the murders of Marilyn Foster and her son, Cade Morrissey. He had been investigated—I knew that much. He had been very cooperative and had seemed genuinely shocked by the discovery of bodies in the buildings. If he owned this place and Violet had seen him here, though …

  Then the full meaning of what she had just said began to sink in.

  “One of the brothers? How many are there?”

  Don’t know. Three here.

  “Now?”

  No. Quinn and Donovan are gone.

  Donovan.

  And I had fallen for what was undoubtedly a made-up story …

  But she was signaling me again. “Sorry, I was distracted—can you repeat that?”

  They have some hold over him.

  “Some hold over whom?”

  Donovan. Kai talks to me. Likes to brag.

  “What hold?”

  Don’t know. Donovan has to do what Nick says. Kai knows some secret about him.

  I had the sense that she knew more than she was telling me, but I decided not to push just now. She was extending a lot of trust just by letting me know she could communicate. I needed to build on that trust.

  “Parrish wants me to provide care for you. Are you okay with that?”

  What difference does it make?

  “I don’t know what can be done. I suppose I could just not do anything, but I don’t think that would work out well for either of us.”

  No. Sorry.

  “As Parrish mentioned, I took care of my father, but he doesn’t seem to understand that, although my father was weak and bedridden at the end of his life, he wasn’t paralyzed. He had stomach cancer. It was almost thirty years ago, so not only am I out of practice but I have no experience with spinal cord injuries.

  “Some aspects of your care may be the same, but you’ll have to let me know. I’m not a raw beginner, I’m not squeamish, and I am not unwilling to help you in any way I can, but you’ll need to give me instructions. Can you manage that?”

  Yes. Thank you.

  So she began to tell me, slowly and painstakingly, what she needed. She had a C-4 spinal injury, so she could breathe on her own, but her limbs were completely paralyzed. She had also received a head injury that impaired her ability to speak. She could chew, swallow, and slightly move her shoulders. Doctors had tried to get her to use them for yes and no responses, but she had been uncooperative.

  I wasn’t sure if I should feel honored or disturbed by her willingness to communicate with me. Five years of that kind of lack of interaction with ot
hers would have been enough to drive most people crazy. I asked her why she had decided to talk to me.

  You know Morse code.

  “I can’t be the first person you’ve come across who does.”

  Second. Learned it from Donovan.

  I was surprised, but I didn’t reply to that. It was getting harder and harder for me to know what to believe about Donovan—or Violet, for that matter. She was saying more, so I concentrated on reading her signals.

  I don’t get out much.

  There was a look of amusement in her eyes.

  What I didn’t know about spine injuries was vast, and I wasn’t going to be able to get more than a quick summary of concerns in one night. It was simply too wearying for her to blink enough code to explain it all. I had already guessed that this type of injury would require help with feeding, with staying hydrated, with movement to avoid bedsores, with bladder and bowel management, with washing and dressing. That much I had been through with my dad at the end of his life, although even in those areas, Violet’s situation was different in many ways.

  She mentioned that her spine could no longer carry messages from the brain about heating and cooling, so she did not sweat below her shoulders. That meant that maintaining a normal body temperature was a concern—her body temperature would fall or rise with the environmental temperature. She needed assistance with coughing. There were exercises that were needed on a daily basis to prevent a host of problems. There were complex concerns about her blood pressure, which might rise dangerously in response to pain stimuli signaled to a brain that could not get the message; the potential for injuries she could not feel; and other issues.

  It was time to apply lotion to her skin and move her—pressure sores are a serious problem for anyone who is immobilized. I did my best.

  I didn’t kid myself that her brief instructions qualified me to take care of her, but making the better-than-nothing cutoff eased some of the guilt I felt over my lack of expertise.

  She fell asleep not long after that, and after sitting in her room for a few moments, wondering how the hell I was going to get out of this mess and what would become of her if I somehow managed to escape, I decided to go back to “my” room.