“So Brent’s probably going to be here for rest of his life?” Murray asked.
“Brent Brunswick has spent five decades in this facility, first in the old building, then this one when it was built. I sincerely doubt that he’ll ever walk the streets on his own again. He’s …” He paused, looking around as if trying to find the right words.
“Waiting to die,” I said, staring at the doctor. If he wouldn’t say it, I would. Murray sucked in a breath but the doctor nodded very slowly.
“Actually, yes. I do honestly believe he’s looking forward to the end. During his lucid moments, he often asks how long he has left.”
Dr. Ziegler stopped in front of a door and unclipped the ring of keys from his belt. He pressed the intercom button beside the door. “Ziegler here. I’m bringing in two guests to see Brent.” He tapped in a code on the security panel, then when a click sounded, he unlocked the door and we followed him in.
The walls were the same icy blue as the rest of the complex, but the room felt close and heavy, as if swathed in cotton.
Two attendants stood by another door that led out the other side. In the center, a Formica-clad table held a single cup of coffee. Four plastic chairs surrounded the table and, in one of those chairs, sat an older gentleman. He was wearing a business suit thirty years out of date, and a blue plastic bracelet encircled his wrist—a hospital bracelet impervious to tearing. He looked up at us and a flicker in his eyes told me he was aware of our presence.
Murray took a step forward. As I stared at Brent Brunswick, my stomach knotted. The doctor was right—he wasn’t all there, even though he looked perfectly normal. It was obvious in his feel, in his aura, in his eyes. I gave Murray a nudge and she nodded ever so slightly as we sat down at the table across from him.
“Brent, I want you to meet two ladies who’ve come to talk to you,” Dr. Ziegler said. “This is Detective Anna Murray, and her friend, Emerald O’Brien.”
Brent ignored Murray but he turned to me and, with what felt like a spark of recognition, whispered, “You know her.”
“Who?” I asked.
“
Her
, you know her,” Brent said, leaning forward.
Taken aback, I swallowed. Dr. Ziegler sighed and joined us at the table. “Sometimes he talks about a mysterious woman, but I haven’t the faintest idea of who she’s supposed to be. He’s never mentioned a name, and his sister’s never given us any clue as to who she might be. A dream, perhaps.”
Murray leaned forward. “Brent … Mr. Brunswick? I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I could.”
Again, he ignored her, this time directly focusing on me. “You want something, don’t you?”
His gaze fastened on mine, and the age slid away from his shoulders. For a moment, it was almost as if I could see him when he was still young and tall and handsome. His face was that of a poet’s, with a delicate bone structure, despite his wide shoulders, and a spark flickered in his eyes, swimming in the depths, dancing, waiting—orange in an ocean of blue, almost drowning. The spark of a life unlived, of an active and brilliant mind caught in the trap of mental illness.
And then, the flare faded and once again, I found myself staring into the age-worn face of a man who had lived far too many years in the fog. Weathered like the mountains, Brent had fought all of his storms on the inside. I stared at him, gauging what I could get away with asking.
Murray slid a piece of paper my way and I glanced at it. She’d written, “He seems to respond to you, go ahead and ask about the lot.”
I sucked in a deep breath and said, “Brent, do you remember the house where you grew up?”
He did not blink, did not move, did not flinch, but I knew I’d caught his attention. After a moment he whispered. “Yes. Hyacinth Street. I lived on Hyacinth Street.”
I nodded. “That’s right. Do you remember who lived there with you?”
Again, an interminable pause. Then, “Mother … Father. My sister.” A wounded expression spread over his face. I felt like I was watching someone on a cliff, teetering on to the edge.
I let out a long breath. “Do you remember someone named Brigit?”
He shifted and looked away. After a moment, he whispered, “I want my paints.”
I glanced at the doctor. “Paints?”
Ziegler smiled. “Mr. Brunswick is quite the painter. He loves to paint castles and trees and cats.”
“What kind of cats?” I asked.
“Calicos, mostly.” The doctor looked over at Brent, who was staring off into space. “He’s at his happiest when he’s got a brush in hand.”
Murray cleared her throat. “Can we see some of his paintings?”
“I’d like to oblige you,” the doctor said, “but as soon as he finishes them, he tears them up. We figure it’s a harmless diversion, and it keeps him content, and that’s the best we can hope for.”
Brent drifted back out of his fugue. He blinked and pointed at me. “You want to ask me something about the house and the land, don’t you?”
I was willing to wager Brent had more than a smattering of psychic awareness. It might have driven him over the edge, considering the atmosphere he’d grown up in. Or maybe something more sinister had been at play. I thought about Dr. Ziegler’s comment to Murray. Could Brent have killed Brigit and then lost grasp of reality?
I glanced at the doctor, who nodded. “Brent, my boyfriend and I want to buy the lot where your house stood. We need your permission, along with Irena’s.” I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I might as well give it a try.
“I don’t care,” he said, sounding surprisingly clear. He shrugged and, for the first time, glanced up at the doctor. “I should sign something?”
Dr. Ziegler stepped forward. “Brent, do you understand what she’s saying?”
“She wants to buy the land. I said I don’t care.”
The doctor looked at me. “You can have him sign something, but I don’t know if it would hold up in court, should his sister object.”
I sighed, wondering vaguely if I might be taking advantage of Brent, but I couldn’t let Joe down. He wanted the land, and Brent would never use it again. I pulled out the form I’d typed up in advance and put it down on the table.
“Do you understand what it says?” the doctor asked Brent, reading it to him.
Brent nodded and held out his hand for a pen. He signed, and I folded the paper and put it back in my purse. Whether it would help or not, I didn’t know, but it was worth the chance.
After I had tucked the paper away, I decided to try one last time. “Brent,” I said softly, leaning forward to stare in the eyes of a young man trapped in a body which had gone on blithely through the years without him.
“Brent, do you remember who Brigit was?”
This time, he began to shake. His eyes grew wide and he stumbled to his feet, breathing rapidly. “Brigit! Oh Brigit, God forgive me, I’m sorry. Brigit, please forgive me—don’t hate me, please don’t hate me. I’m so sorry, so sorry!”
The attendants leapt to his side, taking gentle hold of his arms. Dr. Ziegler stepped forward. “Brent, calm down or we’ll have to sedate you.”
Appalled, I watched as the older man shrank away, twisting against their grips. He was clearly terrified, but the attendants held fast rather than trying to calm him down.
“Brigit! Please—don’t hate me! Don’t hate me!” And then the doctor injected something into Brent’s arm and he went slack in their arms. As they led him away, Ziegler turned back to us.
“That’s the most lucid I’ve seen him in months,” he said.
“Was that little display necessary?” Murray said, and I could tell she was as revolted by their strong-armed tactics as I was.
Dr. Ziegler sighed. “Ladies, have you forgotten that you’re in an institution for seriously dysfunctional people? Brent could have hurt himself if we’d let him go. What else are we supposed to do? Soft words and a gentle hand don’t always do the trick.”
Without another word, Murray and I rose to our feet and left. As we reached the parking lot, I looked back at the building. I couldn’t get the image of the frightened old man fighting against the attendants out of my mind. I leaned against the side of Murray’s truck, swallowing the lump that was rising in my throat as I wondered if I was going to vomit.
“Em, Em? Are you okay?” Murray draped an arm around my shoulder.
“I just … that is not a good place for me to be.”
“Take a deep breath, come on, that’s right—and another. Good.” Her voice soothed my frazzled nerves and after a moment, I shook my head to clear my thoughts.
“What do you think?” I asked. “Brent was begging for Brigit’s forgiveness. Do you think he killed her?”
Murray frowned. “Em, I know it seems like a good lead, but remember—Brent is over the edge. He’s lived in his own little world for half a century, and who knows what he’s dreamed up in there? For all we know, he’s confusing Brigit with a childhood pet or something. I wasn’t sure what I expected to get when I came here, but it’s obvious he’s not playing with a full deck.”
I sighed. What she said made a lot of sense. How could we trust him? And yet, he painted castles and trees and calico cats, and he knew Brigit’s name, and he desperately wanted her forgiveness. For a crime committed? Or simply because he was a confused old man?
“So where do we go from here?”
Murray hopped in the truck and started her up. “I think I’ll check on Brigit O’Reilly. See if I can find a record of her leaving the city.”
I climbed in and fastened my seat belt. “Good idea. I’ve got to make dinner—Joe’s coming for an hour or so. I hope they don’t make him work the next couple nights. I want him home for my birthday.”
She gave me a quiet smile. “Home? So Joe is home when he’s at your house?”
I couldn’t help but grin at her. “Yeah, I guess he is.” We headed back to Chiqetaw in better spirits, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Brent. Just what had he done, that he needed forgiveness?
AS I WHIPPED together a quick meatloaf, the phone rang. It was Margaret, Joe’s aunt. “Hey Maggie,” I said. “Want to join us for dinner tonight?”
Her cheerful voice rang out over the line. “No, my dear, I can’t make dinner, but perhaps I’ll drop by this evening if you don’t mind.”
“I’d like that.”
Margaret Files was a delightfully spry and surprisingly sharp old gal. She was also Joe’s only family in town; his brother lived back east, his father had long disappeared, and his mother lived in California with her latest boyfriend.
I finished dinner just in time to hear the kids slam through the door. They rushed in, asking about Samantha, and I had to tell them that no—she wasn’t home yet. Dejected, they trudged upstairs to wash up for dinner. Kip looked so forlorn that my heart felt like it was cracking in pieces. So many sorrows, so much pain in the world. Randa set the table while Kip went out back to call for Sammy with a can of cat food. In the midst of all our bustle, Joe popped in and I wrapped my arms around him.
“Mmm, I need this,” I said. “It’s been a long day, Files.” I filled him in on what we’d found out and showed him the paper. “I don’t know if this will help, but now Irena can’t use the excuse of not being able to get her brother to agree.”
“I suppose,” he said, setting the paper on the desk and pulling me into a long, leisurely kiss, his tongue probing my mouth, questioning. “I wish I could stay the night,” he whispered. “I want to make love to you, to kiss your neck, your breasts, your thighs. I want to wrap you in my arms and slide inside you.”
I caught my breath, flushing as desire grew like a flame from a lightning strike. Just then, Randa called from the kitchen and I gently disengaged myself.
“Duty calls,” I said, wistfully.
He slapped me on the butt. “Then make me some dinner, woman. We’ll find the time to satisfy our other hunger later.”
I sliced the meatloaf and arranged it on the platter while Randa finished heating a jar of gravy in the microwave. Baked potatoes and diced beets finished the meal, along with the promise of a chocolate cream pie that I’d bought on the way home.
We ate in silence, Kip staring at the door every few minutes. I was worried. If we didn’t find Sammy soon, I had the feeling I’d have more than one breakdown on my hands. While Joe served the pie, I made a pot of mint tea and carefully placed the chintz pot on the table, along with the honey. Randa poured while I fed the cats. I didn’t have the heart to ask Kip to attend to the task. He was taking Sammy’s absence hard, as was I, but he didn’t have the resources or experience to cope with it. Randa also seemed withdrawn.
I took her hand when she offered me a cup of tea. “Randa, honey, is anything wrong?”
She bit her lip, then hung her head. “I got a B today.”
“B? In what?”
Blushing, she said, “Math.”
Math? My genius girl had gotten a B in mathematics, one of her best subjects? I frowned. “Well, honey, that’s a good grade, but I’m kind of surprised. You usually manage an A. Did something happen that you want to talk about?”
With a quick shake of the head, she dove into her pie. “No,” she said, mumbling through a mouthful of whipped cream and chocolate custard. “I screwed up, okay?”
I dropped the subject, not wanting to embarrass her in front of her brother and Joe. It wasn’t the end of the world, by any means, but a radical departure from the usual, and it raised warning flags in my head. I filed it away for later and turned to Joe.
“Your aunt is coming to visit tonight. Will you be able to stay?”
He shook his head and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “I wish I could, but I’ve got to get back to the station. And I may have to work tomorrow night, but I’ll definitely have your birthday off, so chin up, sweetie.” He shook the crumbs off his shirt and leaned down to give me a kiss. “Gotta run. Say hi and love to Aunt Margaret for me.”
“I will,” I said, watching as he slipped into his jacket and headed out the backdoor after a quick good-bye to Kip and Randa. Somehow, my birthday seemed to be dropping further and further into a fugue of its own. I wondered if I should bother celebrating at all. With Sammy missing, and a possible murder next door that may have been committed by a man who had lost his grip on reality … with ghosts and Will o’ the Wisps hanging about, and the spirit of a woman who seemed caught forever in a freeze-frame of time… . Perhaps I should stick to honoring my ancestors the way Nanna had taught me and forget about a celebration.