Butterfield Institute - 01 - The Halo Effect (35 page)

Now I’d never know if I’d been right.

Elias’s voice was like a chorus in the background. I wasn’t sure why I needed to listen anymore. A feeling of ennui flooded over me, as if I were drugged. As if my blood was thickening and flowing more slowly through my veins. He was talking about a little girl. A lost little girl. Only three years older than Dulcie. Only seven years older than me when my mother died.

“How did she feel, Dr. Snow? When he left her in her bed all those nights, sheets damp with his sweat and his semen, her thighs red with the pressure of him on top of her. Please tell me how she felt. How it made her like this.”

“A child would become damaged and angry, furious.” I was giving him textbook answers, but he didn’t seem to care. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, absorbing every word. “She would blame herself for this happening precisely because she
was
a child. She wouldn’t know better than to think that.”

It was all right. I could talk this one out, because I was not talking about Cleo per se. I would give him generalities. But I knew that it
was
Cleo we were talking about, and this was key to why she couldn’t separate herself from her trauma and make love to Elias the way he wanted her to. The way she wanted to.

“A young girl who lived through that trauma would have several paths to follow. She could break. Or she could finally tell someone and with help she would be able to deal with what had happened to her,” I explained.

“But what if she didn’t do either of those things? What if she didn’t tell anyone and just went on? Would she, might she, become a prostitute to perpetuate that kind of action?”

“Yes, it would give her control over men. By charging for sex, by having the ability to stop it or start it, she would be in total control. Everything she did in her work would ultimately be insulting toward men. Every time she took another client on she would be getting her revenge.”

“And what would make her better?” he asked.

“In therapy, if she was in therapy, a therapist could bring her through that period of time again, help her get in touch with her rage. Help her recognize she only had limited power as a child, but she is not a child anymore. I’d encourage her to vocalize her anger and give her mother the blame she deserves. We’d work through the trauma.”

“And then?” He was nodding as if memorizing what I was saying.

“Then the need to humiliate men would start to go away. By being a prostitute, by getting paid for sex, she turned it
into a job and kept her feelings at a distance. She’d have to learn to reconnect to the positive feelings of sex. Once she realized that she didn’t need that motivation, that angry control over men anymore, she might be able to stop loving from a distance. She’s afraid of being vulnerable. She’s been drastically betrayed. She doesn’t trust intimacy. She can’t share much of her real self. She taught herself not to talk about herself or share her real self. It’s love from a distance.”

“And the book? Why would she be writing a book?”

I couldn’t tell him. But I knew. She’d been writing a book because she was still so angry at men that she needed to expose them.

S
he was listening. To the voice of an angel. To the voice of someone who had come to save her. In the pitch-black confessional Cleo knew that it was up to her. Everything had come down to this. Her stepfather had come to her in the dark. And it was dark again. None of the men she took to her bed had ever asked her why there was always one small light on in the room. They never seemed to care. But she needed it. And she needed the light again. She needed to move. But with her hands and feet bound together it was almost impossible. Behind the duct tape on her mouth she screamed in silent agony. Screaming out the name of the woman on the other side of the door who could save her, who would save her if only she could tell her she was there.

Listening to the voices, using them as navigation out of her starless night, she inched forward on the floor. Four feet might as well have been four miles. She could not stand, not walk, not crawl. She was more helpless than an infant.

This was how he had made her feel. With his large hands and his ugly whisper. She had told Dr. Snow about it. She had told Elias about it. How his voice in her ear was even worse sometimes than his cock shoved up between her legs. She’d had to hear the same voice that had read her bedtime stories whisper about how tight she was between her legs. The same voice that asked her mother for more macaroni and cheese tell her that she was the sweetest girl he had ever fucked. He liked talking during sex, and that made it harder to take. She couldn’t just shut her eyes and pretend that he was a handsome boy in her class or some actor from a movie she had seen. She had to know it was him. She had to know it over and over again.

Inches. Slow rocking side to side. How far was she moving? At least they were still talking on the other side of the door. Maybe they would keep talking long enough for her to get there. But then what would she do? She had no voice. She could not move her hands or her feet.

It was hard to breathe through her nose while she made this effort. The sweat was sliding down her back. The fabric she was wearing was so heavy on her shoulders, so hot around her body, it made moving even more laborious. If only she could take it off. But she had no free hands, no free feet. She only had her body. It was all she’d ever had.

The fucking tears were there again. The damn tears. From the effort? Or from the words coming at her from the other side of the door? He knew she was listening. That was the point. His last chance to cleanse her. Nothing else had worked. Nothing would. He was using Dr. Snow. And when he had used her up, would he get rid of her, too? She had to stop him. But all she had was her body. It was all she’d ever had.

T
here was nothing left to hear. Or to say. For a moment, both of us just sat there with the words swirling above our heads. They even had their own sound. A soft rustle. No. That was a real sound. But what kind of sound?

“Thank you, Dr. Snow.”

I nodded. Not wanting to talk. Wanting to listen. I got up and walked to the window. The sound was farther away. I walked back to the couch, and as I did I passed by the glass cart and saw the label on the bottle of wine.

It was not wine you could buy in just any store. It was sacramental wine. Sold only to churches for use during mass. Sacramental wine?

And then I recognized the smell I’d noticed when I’d come in the door. Incense. The kind they burned in church. I’d been to mass often enough with Mitch to know it. I’d smelled it on Elias before. And I’d smelled it somewhere else.

I looked at Elias. He caught my eye. I looked away. Toward the door. There was an umbrella stand and in it a black umbrella with a familiar silver handle. It shone and the shine mocked me. I had missed all the clues. And now they were crowding in on me. Everywhere I looked was one more.

I kept walking. Now I was passing his desk, where there was a pile of envelopes addressed to him. But not here. Not here. The address was in St. Martin, N.A.

That was where I had seen those initials before. On Elias’s business card. An office in New York City. Another in St. Martin, N.A.

It was only a coincidence.

Noah had said there was a church in St. Martin that had ordered nun’s habits, but this was impossible. It was only a coincidence.

Suddenly a loud crash broke the silence. The sound of something solid smashing against wood. It came from beyond the living room. From somewhere deeper in the apartment.

Was it a coincidence?

Could Elias be the Healer? Could I have been so blind? And if he was the man who had been killing all those women, then he had to have taken Cleo. There had to be a connection. But what? Had he killed Cleo? No. I knew what I was doing. I had watched his face when he had talked about her. He was obsessed with her. He truly loved her. He had not killed her. But had he killed those other women in some sick ritual that was somehow connected to Cleo? I couldn’t figure it out, not yet, not right away, not while I was so afraid. But of course there was a connection. I’d thought there was all along.

And then I heard a sound again. A thud this time, soft, without much power. But loud enough for me to hear it. And for Elias to hear it. And for his eyes to narrow with anger.

As much as I wanted to go search the apartment, I knew that if I was right and there was someone—Cleo?—here, the
only chance I had was to get myself out first. I needed to get to a phone. To call Noah. His name was large in my head now, shining, a solution. Just get out. Walk to the door. Do not look in the direction of the sound.

“I have to go, Elias.”

“Yes, you have to go.”

What had he read on my face? What was he thinking? Where was Cleo? I couldn’t focus on any of that yet. I had to get out first. Just get past him. And through the door.

I was halfway there, almost to the door, when I realized I had forgotten my bag. I had to act in a normal fashion as I went back for it, or he would know for sure that my suspicions had been raised, and if he was guilty, as I was now sure he was, he would never let me leave. And if I couldn’t leave, I couldn’t save Cleo. I needed to get out for Cleo. For Dulcie. The adrenaline was flooding my blood.

I turned back to the couch for my bag. But my eyes drifted toward the door next to the kitchen.

The picture of the blue-and-black iris was askew.

I heard the sound again. It was coming from behind that door. And this last impact sent the frame sliding off its hook, revealing a corner of wire mesh. The corner of a confessional screen.

I
t was too late. He saw me stare at the door. He saw what I saw, knew that I knew. There wasn’t much I could do. I had nothing to protect myself with. He was on the other side of the room. I was only steps from the door. I had nothing left to lose.

I opened the door. I didn’t think, didn’t worry. Too much had happened. Too much was at stake.

I stared into the dark space.

There she was. A nun dressed in full habit lying on the floor. Cleo’s lovely eyes weeping tears, her mouth taped up, her hands and feet bound. Her forehead dotted with sweat.

I was afraid to turn around and look back at Elias because now I was certain who I was in the room with. And I knew that there was no way the Healer was going to allow me to leave now that I’d found him out. Why hadn’t I been able to put it all together sooner? I’d had the book and it was full of
clues. True, in my office Cleo had referred to Elias as Caesar, and in the book she had referred to him as the Healer. But she’d also told me that she had several names for him.
She’d told me that. And I hadn’t remembered
.

I shut my eyes. I breathed. What could I do? I was a fucking therapist. How could I get out of this?

I had to talk him down. It was what I did. It was all I did. I knew how to help people with words.

“Elias, let’s sit down.”

He shook his head. “What the fuck do I do with you now? Why didn’t you leave? I don’t want you here.” He was close to crying.

“What do you want?”

“I just wanted to learn the secret to how to make her clean again.”

“I can help you with that. If you will untie her, take her gag off. She can sit down and we can talk it out.”

“Oh, please, Dr. Snow. I can’t do that. I will not get caught.”

“Yes, you will. Eventually, you will.”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t get caught. Not in hotels, not in your office. It was me who ransacked your office that day. I was trying to find Cleo’s book. To take it away from you. I didn’t want you to get any ideas.”

So that’s why he had gone to see Simon Weiss. To get into the institute. To be seen there so if he was seen there again it wouldn’t be so obvious.

“No one figures me out,” he bragged desperately.

“Let me help you.”

“There is no way you can. You had to look, didn’t you? You had to be a nosy bitch cunt and look, didn’t you? Damn it. What have you done?”

“You’re right. It’s my fault looked. I am nosy. Because I care about you. And about Cleo. I care about people who are
confused and who don’t understand and who think there’s no way out.”

“I’ve killed five women. What way out is there?”

My heart was pumping so hard and fast that I could hear it in my chest. He had been enticing prostitutes to hotel rooms to see if he could turn sinners into saints. Cleanse them. Create a halo effect that he could then use on Cleo. My eyes went to her gaunt face. Cleo was on the floor, helpless. Elias was across the room. Cleo was staring at me, sending me a message with her eyes. For just a second I focused on her. Her eyes darted to the floor by my feet, then over in Elias’s direction. Back to the floor, then up to my face. I knew she was trying to send me a message, but I couldn’t read it.

I took a step toward her. He let me. I moved closer to her, even closer, and then reached down and wiped away her tears.

“Holy water,” he said behind me. “I tried that, too. I bathed her in it. I practiced on those other bitches. I experimented with the sacraments, with the host, with everything I could think of to turn them pure.”

“And when you couldn’t, when they were still prostitutes, you killed them.”

“So they could be saints. So they could go to the Virgin Mary. At least I could do that for them.” He was stronger now. It was the bravado. One of the signatures of a psychopath. He had been brilliant. A lawyer. Coming to me and saying he was a suspect. Deflecting suspicion by taking it on.

He was rifling through a desk drawer. Pulling out papers. Searching for something else. Putting things in his pockets.

“I’m prepared for this. Totally prepared for this.”

I didn’t ask him what he meant. Cleo’s eyes were signaling me again. From the floor to Elias. To the floor.

He was pulling things out of the briefcase now. Not law papers. It wasn’t a briefcase, after all. It was a sacrament case. Out came holy water, a large gold chalice and a purple
silk vestment. He threw them all on the floor. They had failed him. He kicked at the chalice and it rolled across the room. If only it had come in my direction I could have used it as a weapon.