The Drowned Girls (Angie Pallorino Book 1) Page 28

  Father Simon’s voice seemed to come from far, far away. “Through the giving of spiritual guidance, outside of the confessional, I can say that Gracie Marie was troubled by her own promiscuity.”

  Angie tried to latch on to this, tried to focus on the next question, but her mind was blurred, a panic licking to a fire inside her with the clanging of the bells, the sense of snow, the scent of it coming in through the door which Maddocks was still holding open. Time seemed to stretch, warping everything like elastic.

  “Meaning?” Maddocks said.

  “Meaning, I was led to believe she regularly had intercourse with many different partners, and it bothered her.”

  “She told you this? Outside of confession?” he confirmed.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a rather intimate thing to tell a male priest, especially outside of confession. How did it come about? What kind of relationship did you have with Gracie?” Maddocks said.

  “She tried her female charms on me.”

  “She tried to seduce you?” Bells clanged louder.

  “When I asked her why she was doing this, I came to learn that Gracie was … needy. She craved love, acceptance. I think she felt abandoned by her father and lonely with a largely absent mother. She also had trouble as a younger child at school with being accepted. From what she told me, sex, giving her body, bought her relationships with boys and subsequent interest from the in-girls at school. It helped her feel that she belonged. At least, I believe this was the case with her previous boyfriend.”

  “Rick Butler?” said Maddocks.

  “I believe that was his name, yes.”

  “Did she tell you anything about her new boyfriend, about these other males she allegedly slept with?”

  “I’ve told you what I can, detectives. And now, I must go.”

  “When did you last actually see Gracie yourself?” Maddocks said.

  The door to the inner part of the cathedral opened behind them. The woman who’d been saying her rosary exited. As the door swung slowly shut, the strains of an organist warming up were joined by a high, sweet voice—a young boy starting to sing … Ave Marie—aaaah …

  Terror kicked through Angie.

  She shot a glance at the gap between the exit doors, her heart banging hard against her ribs.

  “Sunday before last,” the priest said. “For Mass, during the sacrament of Holy Communion.”

  “Thank you, Father,” she muttered quickly, and she shoved out the exit doors into snow. Fat flakes wafted softly in the misty halos of the streetlights. Outside the bells resounded in a clattering cacophony through the canyons of the buildings. Growing louder … louder … louder. Angie stared at the red emergency sign of the hospital across the street, through the madness of the swirling flakes, the bells, the sweet high sound of the hymn being drowned by bells, that glowing red sign, the cross, the snow … it all built to a blinding roar inside her skull …

  Flee! … Uciekaj! Uciekaj!

  Maddocks’s voice reached her, as if from deep inside a tunnel. “What do you make of him, the celibate priest, and his relationship with Gracie, them talking about sex?”

  They were walking beneath the gargoyles of Saint Jude’s now toward the red hospital sign. How had they gotten here? Had they crossed the street? They were nearing the red emergency sign.

  Get inside! Wskakuj do srodka, szybko!

  Siedz cicho! Stay quiet!

  A woman’s shrill scream sliced through the noise. And everything went dead silent. Angie couldn’t hear a thing. She couldn’t see anything, just the red sign behind the falling flakes. She was blind. Danger. Pain. Everywhere. They’re coming …

  Her hand went under her coat, to her hip. With a rapid, well-rehearsed movement, she unsheathed her carbon-fiber knife, flicked it open … went into a crouch …

  CHAPTER 45

  Shock slammed through Maddocks. Beside him, Pallorino had frozen into a crouch, and it was as if her boots had rooted into the ground. Her complexion had turned ghost white. Her eyes, like big black holes, appeared to stare sightlessly at the hospital emergency entrance. She started to rock slowly side to side as she waved the blade of her knife in front of her.

  “Pallorino?”

  She shifted rapidly to face the sound of his voice, her mouth open. She was panting lightly and now brandishing the knife at him.

  “Angie—you okay?”

  She lunged forward with the blade, and he jerked back in surprise. “Jesus, Pallorino, what is it?”

  A sheen of sweat covered her skin. Concern, worry stabbed through him.

  “Angie! Can you hear me? Talk to me!”

  She moved fast, gunning the tip of the knife straight at his gut. He grabbed her wrists, wrenching her arms to his right as he swung his body out of the way of the blade. He twisted her arms, hard. “Drop the knife!”

  She yelled something unintelligible, foreign-sounding. Maddocks heaved his weight to the side while still gripping her wrists. This wrenched her off balance, and it forced her to bend at the waist. But she surprised him by suddenly moving along with his force instead of fighting it. At the same time her right elbow came up and cracked into his nose. Pain sparked through his skull. The taste of blood filled the back of his nasal passages. His eyes burned.

  She broke free and jumped backward, resuming her stance. Again, she waved the knife at him, eyes wild, glittering. She now had him cornered in an alcove. She’d kill him if she could—he didn’t doubt it. His mind went to his gun in its holster.

  Instead, he put both palms up, eyes watering, gouts of blood gushing from his nose. At the same time he adjusted his stance so that he could go for his weapon in case he was forced to. “It’s okay,” he called out loudly. “It’s okay. Just me. Maddocks. James Maddocks. Your partner, Angie. Pallorino! For Chrissakes, stand down!”

  She lunged forward, swiped. The sharp tip of her blade cut through the sleeve of his thick wool coat. He used her motion to swing around and grab her again, and he smashed her shoulder-first against the stone wall, yanking her hands behind her back and twisting until her fingers released and the knife clattered to the sidewalk.

  His heart thumped in his chest. He coughed and gagged, choking on his own blood. But he kept her pressed up against the wall as he groped in his pocket for plastic wrist restraints—the same kind she’d used to cuff him to the motel bed. He tightened them around her wrists, and still holding her in place, he reached down and retrieved her knife, closed the blade. He pocketed the knife, and then he took her service weapon out from her holster.

  Her body began to shudder.

  “Angie?” His voice was shaking. He coughed again. She turned her face sideways against the wall, as if searching for his voice.

  Cautiously, he turned her body around to face him. Fear was wide in her eyes, but her pupils were going back to normal, her focus returning. She stared at his face, at the blood leaking down his front. Her gaze dropped down to her gun in his hand. Slowly, she looked up at his face again, a kind of horror entering her features. Tears began to wash down her cheeks. Her shakes turned into great big palsied shudders.

  “It’s okay, Angie,” he said softly, pocketing her gun. “It’s going to be okay.” He gathered her into his arms, her hands still cuffed behind her back, his nose bleeding onto her coat, and she gave in to him, leaning herself into his body. He stroked her wet hair. “It’s going to be okay.” He glanced toward the emergency exit as he spoke. “Take it easy now, okay. I’m going to walk you slowly over to the hospital. We’re going to get you some help.”

  She stiffened suddenly, and her head jerked up. “No,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “No, please, not there.” The wild look was starting to flood back into her eyes.

  He gagged again on the blood going down the back of his throat, and he spat a gout of blood and phlegm to the ground.

  “I’m not going in there,” she repeated.

  “Yes you are. For me. I need you in there for me, okay? I think you’ve broken
my nose. I need your support, okay?”

  “Oh God … fuck … fuck.”

  “Come—”

  He put his arm around her shoulders and led her toward the emergency entrance to Saint Jude’s.

  CHAPTER 46

  It was dark in the marina, apart from some strings of colored Christmas lights dotted along ropes and the light coming from cabin windows. Sleet battered down sideways, and the boats rocked on the swells surging into the small harbor, making water slap and chuckle against hulls, and halyards chink against masts.

  “Careful, deck is slippery,” Maddocks said as he held his arm out to Angie.

  She stopped and stared at his outreached hand, suddenly overcome with a feeling that if she clasped onto that hand, it would be a point of no return. That if she allowed him to lead her down into his old, wooden-hulled yacht, she would be obligated to share with him secrets, insecurities, fears that she’d kept hidden from every single person on this earth. And it would cost her her job.

  She also knew if she didn’t go with him, it would cost her her job.

  “Angie?” he said, using her first name. They were far beyond surface veneers and professional civilities now. She’d attacked and tried to kill him. She’d close to broken his nose, and it was swelling, deep-purple contusions forming beneath his eyes. And she couldn’t thank him enough for not forcing her to seek medical attention herself tonight when he’d taken her into the hospital with him, for instead bringing her here, where he said he wanted to watch her while she considered her options …

  Because you must see someone, Angie … I can’t work with you. I cannot trust you as a partner to have my back if you’re going to flip out and try to kill me. You could be more of a danger to a partner than the bad guys you’re after … This, I cannot let this slide—I won’t.

  She inhaled and looked slowly up into his eyes, which were inky in the darkness, and she did it—she grasped his hand, stepped on board. He led her down into his cabin.

  She climbed down the companionway ladder to find Jack-O curled on a little sheepskin rug in the cabin. He growled low in his throat, as if saying, Stay in your area of the yacht and I might not attack.

  Maddocks seemed larger in the cozy confines of the main living area, which also housed a neat galley. He looked down into her eyes. His own were bloodshot above the bandage covering the bridge of his nose—it was going to take some explaining to his colleagues tomorrow. Her stomach clenched at what she’d done to him without even realizing it, and what he might tell them. “I’m so sorry,” she said again.

  Concern sifted into his eyes. And more. She hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left Saint Jude’s. He still had her knife and service weapon. On one level she’d wanted to resist him, to hate him for having seen her like this, to just walk away and pretend it had never occurred. On a more logical level, she knew that she really did need help now, and she didn’t know how to go about getting it without jeopardizing her career.

  “Take a seat,” he said, putting on the gas heating system and opening a cupboard in the galley.

  She blew out a heavy breath, pushed damp hair off her brow, and shucked off her coat. Seating herself on the bench sofa in the little living area, she removed her boots. He took out two glasses and a bottle of scotch. He poured a healthy shot of liquor into each and brought the glasses over. Jack-O watched them warily from his mat, growling again as Maddocks handed her a drink.

  “Thanks.” Angie had to hold the glass with both her trembling hands in order to deliver it to her lips. She managed to take a big, burning sip without spilling. She took another and closed her eyes as the alcohol went down. It settled her shakes. She opened watering eyes and looked straight up into his, which were still burning with questions, concern, compassion.

  She opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again. He didn’t push. Instead he removed his own coat and hung both his and hers up on hooks next to the ladder. He went back into his tiny galley, opened a container of dog biscuits, and clattered some into a bowl. He set the biscuits onto the floor next to a water bowl and gave a whistle.

  Jack-O rose from his mat and scuttled over on his three legs, casting another leery glance at Angie as he did. He kept a beady eye trained on her as he crunched his doggie biscuits.

  Wind gusted, the boat rocked, and halyards clattered. It felt cozy and safe inside, not at all claustrophobic as she’d anticipated. Photographs of him and Ginny covered his small fridge. Books and papers littered his dining table. He seated himself beside her and took a sip of his own drink.

  “Has it happened before?” he said.

  She cupped the glass between her palms, resting it on her lap. “Not like that. Never like that.”

  He waited.

  Panic suddenly tightened, along with an urge to flee. She glanced toward the exit.

  You have to face this …

  “I’ve been having hallucinations, I think,” she said finally. She described to him in detail the little girl in pink, where and when she’d appeared, what the child seemed to be saying and in what language. She told him about her mother’s illness and that the onset of her mom’s symptoms started around the same age Angie was now.

  She took a sip and gave a soft snort. “I’m going crazy. There, I said it. It’s my lot in life to wind up sitting in an old rocker staring at my own reflection in the locked wards of the Mount Saint Agnes Mental Health Treatment Facility, watched over by white-coated orderlies.”

  “So that’s who you went to visit there?”

  Angie nodded. Now it was out. She’d relinquished control of the information. That was the thing about secrets—you didn’t tell one if you truly wanted it to be kept secret. The idea of “sharing” a secret was, to her, a joke.

  He weighed her in silence, just the sound of the wind and water outside.

  “It is possible that you’re developing schizophrenia,” he said quietly.

  “Well, thanks.”

  He removed her drink from her grip and set both glasses on the small table in front of them. He gathered her hands in his. Gently, his thumb stroked her skin, and it sent soft strands of desire tingling to her nipples. Suddenly she ached to just fold herself into him, like a child, in a fetal position, to be held. Loved. This need to put herself into someone’s care was an emotion Angie had not experienced since she was a child.

  Jack-O finished his meal and came to lie at Maddocks’s feet, his nose pointing toward Angie’s socked feet.

  “Or it could also be PTSD, Angie. That, to me, is more likely, given what you went through with Hash and that toddler—she’s come back to haunt you.”

  “How much do you know about that incident with Hash?”

  “I read the file.”

  “Why?”

  He gave a half shrug.

  “You were worried about me being your partner? Is that what you were really driving at, outside Jon Jacques’s penthouse? You question my judgment because you think I could have done something to save Hash from being killed.”

  “On the contrary. I was intrigued about the woman who tied me to the bed at the Foxy Motel.” He smiled. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, and it made him wince.

  “If you’re trying for a joke, it’s not funny.”

  He nodded slowly, features sobering.

  “And what about the strange language, then?”

  “Hmm. Have you considered that it might be related to memory, possibly buried?”

  She looked away, chewing this over, running the past days over in her mind.

  “Maybe the incident with Hash, PTSD, is surfacing something deeper, Angie.”

  “I don’t know. I do think I might be remembering more of the car accident that happened when I was four. I was badly injured. Almost died.”

  “The scar on your mouth?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me about it.”

  She explained the story. Italy. Her dad’s sabbatical. “But looking at the photos, something about the timing seems o
ff.” She described to him about the dates inscribed on the backs of the Italy photos, the discrepancies she’d discovered. Then she mentioned her mother’s strange comments about angels, and how “Angie” was returned on a Christmas Eve when it was snowing, and how badly she’d been shaken when her mother had started to sing “Ave Maria” in a soft mezzo-soprano.

  His eyes narrowed. “So all these triggers came together in a convergence tonight? Is that what happened? The cathedral, the bells, the season being Christmas, the fact it had started snowing, the boy singing the same hymn as your mom?”

  She heaved out a chestful of air and rubbed her face. “I guess. I … I felt panic. Terror, even, when I … we came out. I saw the red emergency entrance sign, and then I don’t recall what happened next.”

  He snorted. “You tried to kill me, that’s what.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m a fuckup.” She reached for her glass and swigged back a gulp of scotch.

  “You do need to talk to someone, Angie, a professional—”

  “And lose my job when Metro PD discovers I’m some crackpot?”

  He held her gaze, and she read the unspoken words in his eyes: You’re not safe to do the job while you are some crackpot.

  “You owe it to yourself,” he said quietly. “And to everyone who might work with you in a high-risk situation.”

  Hearing him voice it again made her feel sick to her stomach. She was a liability. To herself. To others. She could have killed him.

  He cupped her face. Gently, he thumbed her lip, her scar. “It might be quite simple, Angie,” he said. “Memories—that’s all it might be. Things you might have repressed as a kid. Something around the accident coming out now because of a convergence of circumstances that are stressful. Like your mother being admitted. Hash and the toddler dying on your watch. This Baptist case. They’re triggers.”

  “And the girl in pink?”

  “You said she has long red hair. Maybe she’s some externalized version of yourself at an age where you experienced the violent accident. Maybe extrapolated with Tiffany.”

  “And the Polish language?” she said again.