Stone Maidens (14 page)

Hilda halfheartedly hugged her son about the shoulders. The doctor followed her to the door and closed it behind her.

“By the way, on the phone this morning your father said you came home late several times last week.” Walstein faced David. “Running more errands?”

“It was only a little after dark,” David said. “Not so late.”

“He’s concerned about this erratic behavior, David.” Walstein gazed at him sympathetically. “Talk to me, David. I need to hear it from you. What’s going on? You know what I’m referring to—your visions?”

“I...I can’t.”

“I can’t help unless you’re willing to talk.”

“It won’t change anything,” David said, exasperated. “Nothing stops him from coming.”

“Stops who from coming?”

David focused on the Oriental rug pattern, his eyes racing over and over its zigzag designs.

“Who? You said ‘him.’”

“I don’t know who! Some two-faced bastard.” David scrubbed a hand through his hair. “If I did know, I’d tell you.”

Dr. Walstein was unfazed. “Two-faced? That’s an interesting choice of words. It implies a person who has another side to him.”

A line of sweat traced down David’s temple. He could hardly contain the urge to run. “The visions. It’s what I call him.”

Walstein nodded. “Tell me more about this two-faced bastard.”

David’s face muscles grew taut. “No, I can’t. I haven’t really anything to say. It makes no sense.”

“I can see that he troubles your conscience, David. What else does he do?”

“That’s just the point, Doctor.” David shook his head. “He controls everything. I have no choice. It happens and...and then I’m not trusted. By my father, mother, probably even you.”

“David, the healing process can only begin if we establish trust, if you are willing to speak openly about these matters. You know the difference between right and wrong, between what’s real and what isn’t. You hold the key.”

The doctor leaned forward in his chair. “I can help. I can see that these visions torment you and are triggering your fears.”

Suddenly the ache was looming—phantom pains David had known for much longer than the recurring visions. The uneasiness grew; the ache was advancing.

“Something’s bothering you right now,” the doctor said. “I can see that it is. Tell me. Is he hurting you now?”

David fought to keep the ache at bay. “I...I don’t know...”

It raced through him. Closed his eyes for him. Every ounce of David strained to hold on. A sensation of bumping heads nearly collapsed him to the floor. He fought against it with all his strength.

“Come now.” Dr. Walstein removed his jacket, folding it neatly and draping it over his chair. The doctor sat beside David. “What’s happening inside you?”

The muscles in David’s jaw tightened a notch. “I told you. I have trouble seeing things straight sometimes.” He met Walstein’s gaze. “But it’s not me. You have to believe me. I’m not the one doing it.”

“I believe you.”

David nodded, drained. “I...I black out. That’s all I know.” A trickle slid down his cheek. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” He swallowed uncomfortably. “Seeing things isn’t a crime.”

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned the word ‘crime.’ Do you feel that you’re doing something wrong?”

“No!”

“I think it’s your conscience eating away at you that’s causing these problems,” said Walstein softly. “We need to talk more about that.” A cell phone on the doctor’s desk blotter vibrated. “Tomorrow then. At seven.”

David walked out the clinic door, feeling drained and defeated. The visions had been getting worse. More vivid, more out of control, and now, according to his mother, he, David, was saying things and doing things that he himself could not remember or explain or understand. Seeing his mother patiently waiting for him in the car, he wondered how much longer he could hold it together. Then he had a frightening thought: If they are not visions, but real events, what unspeakable acts might happen next?

Prusik hurried up the steps to the Chicago Museum of Natural History with trepidation. It had been almost five months since she’d embarrassed herself on the podium at the opening night gala celebrating completion of the second floor’s exhibit renovations. She shuddered involuntarily. Embarrassed wasn’t strong enough a word, really. Humiliated was more like it.

The evening had started out smoothly enough. Normally Christine was uncomfortable making idle chitchat with the kind of people attending the gala—überwealthy patrons of the museum decked out in all their conspicuous finery—but for some reason, on that night she hadn’t felt self-conscious at all. Maybe it was because it was a Tuesday night, the weeknight traditionally open to the public free of charge, and so there were plenty of “normal” people mixed in with the tuxedo and gown crowd. Maybe it was that she was wearing heels and a lovely gray-green dress that matched her eyes, instead of the slacks and sensible oxfords that her job seemed to require, and she actually felt attractive. Or maybe it was just that she was getting more accustomed to speaking in public.

She had been flattered to have been asked to speak about the museum’s formative influence on her, and it hadn’t been difficult for her to come up with an enthusiastic speech. But she never got to give it. Thirty seconds into her talk she had turned to gesture, with a flourish, to a display case behind the podium. And she had frozen.

The case contained a life-size tableau of the sort the museum was so famous for. This one was a jungle scene set in Papua New Guinea, fitting for the reopening of the Oceania exhibit. Discernible, now, in the lush vegetation, was something she had not been able to see when she had been waiting in the wings to be introduced—a well-muscled warrior wearing a brilliant blue-green feather mask. Around his neck hung a carved stone amulet, gleaming under the bright casement lights.

The warrior, the mask, and the charm stone had taken her straight back to the Turama River basin and immobilized her in her tracks. Moments passed. When she turned around again to address the audience, Christine had found she was unable to speak. Eventually, she had made her way off the stage to haphazard and bewildered applause.

Now she was late for her ten o’clock appointment with Nona MacGowan, the institution’s resident botanist, who had sounded so young on the phone that Prusik had wondered if she’d called the botanist’s home number and gotten her daughter by accident. MacGowan was an expert on Midwest flora and a principal adviser to the University of Chicago’s arboretum collection. Christine hoped she hadn’t heard about the opening night fiasco in April, or worse yet, hadn’t been one of the puzzled people in the audience. She took a breath and brought her attention back to the case.

It was late August already and she was still mucking around with seeds and flecks of paint. The kinds of things you do when a case has gone cold—that’s what Thorne had said. While she was grabbing a sandwich yesterday, he’d gone into her office and stuck a red Post-it to her desk lamp, flawlessly written with his Montblanc nib: “Christine: Still expecting your report. Thx, Roger.”

What had happened to being a cop in the field? There wasn’t time enough for anything
but
writing up damn reports—a distraction from maximizing her efforts on the case. Too much time was wasted worrying how it might play out with the higher-ups.
Christine sighed. She would push herself harder. Thorne hadn’t taken the case away from her, but she had a sense that it was only a matter of time before he did.

MacGowan had said for her to go all the way to the end of the south wing, past the
Rise of Mammals
and
Dawn of Man
exhibits. Her office door was next to a large alabaster crouching lion.

Dim light filtered down from skylights. Prusik knocked on a frosted glass door marked B
OTANICALS
: A
UTHORIZED
P
ERSONNEL
O
NLY
.

“Special Agent Christine Prusik.” She held out her hand to the woman who opened the door.

“Call me Nona.” The woman took Prusik’s hand in both of hers. She was dressed in brown work pants and a tweedy jacket that went with her outdoorsy face, which creased in all the right places when she smiled.

“Please call me Christine,” said Prusik, smiling in return in spite of herself.

“I’ve something to show you,” said Nona. She opened an inner office door and flicked on a bank of overhead fluorescent lights. Large wooden collecting cases lined the room from floor to ceiling, their drawers labeled with Latin binomials.

“Brian has spoken so highly of you,” Prusik said. Eisen had earlier supplied the botanist with several seeds taken from the Blackie victim’s clothing.

“Bless his heart.” Nona withdrew some samples in glassine. “As I told Mr. Eisen, I help set up the museum displays so specimens of elk are properly mounted next to bear grass or Western sage, for example.”

“So—what have you found?” Prusik asked, taking a chair.

The botanist held one of the sample bags up to the light. Small green pearls gathered along its bottom crease. “None of these seeds is a forest species per se.”

Nona took out a notebook with a yellow pencil clipped under a thick rubber band that held the book closed.

“They’re members of the mallow family, a big one. This particular variety grows quite tall, even in poor soil conditions along dirt roads or gravel driveways. It likes lots of sun. It’s not the sort of thing you ordinarily find in dense forest.”

Nona glanced down at her notes. “I understand from Mr. Eisen that this sample came from a rural farming district. This species is a fairly common variety in the Midwest. It frequently grows next to farmhouses and barns.”

Prusik imagined a painter whitewashing a barn, trampling over mallow plants, seeds sticking to him. “Something that might readily stick to a painter’s clothing?”

“Yes, that would be very likely, especially in summertime when the seeds are ready to disperse. They have a tendency to cling to clothing. They act very much like Velcro.”

“But you say it wouldn’t be the kind of plant found in a forest?” Prusik tugged at the gold stud in her right earlobe.

“No, of that I’m quite sure. This species prefers open spaces, plenty of direct sunlight. Unfortunately, it
is
quite common. You’ll even find it growing in many abandoned city lots here.” Nona stared down at the floor as if a mallow shrub might sprout up right there.

Prusik pondered the point. Betsy Ryan’s body had been found near the Little Calumet River. That was practically in Chicago.

Nona flicked the second sample bag with her fingernail. “This one’s an
entirely
different story.” The weathered lines around her eyes curved up. “Absolutely no relation to mallow.”

“What are they?” Prusik leaned forward, studying the tiny brown bits.

“
Rosaceae multiflora
, a species native to Asia but widely distributed in North America for centuries.” Nona circled the name in her notebook. “Sticky wicket,
multiflora
. You don’t go wandering into it willy-nilly without getting horrifically entangled.”

Prusik thought of Missy Hooper’s blackened, writhing corpse. She’d recovered a thorn off the girl’s sock. “Where does this
multiflora
like to grow?”

“This particular species you mainly find along the edges of fields—it’s the bane of farmers. Years and years ago they were planted as hedgerows to keep herd stock from wandering off. The thorns like the mineral-rich soils of the Midwest and spread easily, sending runners everywhere. It’s become quite a problem. Fields have been inundated. When livestock wander into the thorns, their necks get entangled, choking them to death. It wouldn’t be a surprise to find it growing near mallow. Thornbushes grow right up to fences, around barnyards, too.”

Prusik fished the vial out of her briefcase. “I realize your expertise is—”

“The charm stone!” Nona blurted out. “Where’d you find it?”

“Beg your pardon?”

Nona rotated her chair and leaned over. She removed a portable lamp from its metal carrying case.

“Shortwave UV. May I see that vial?” She switched on the lamp and passed the ultraviolet beam close over the glass vial. “Can you see it?”

Under the intense beam a green strip of light glowed on the yellowish rock. “What is it?” Prusik said.

“Invisible to the naked eye. We’ll need high-power magnification to read the micro-etch security lettering,” Nona said. “I’m sure it’s one of the charm stones that went missing during renovations last winter. Museums worldwide have had good luck retrieving stolen artifacts from the secondary collectors’ market using this identification technique.”

“These thefts were reported?” Prusik asked, frowning. “I don’t remember hearing anything about them.”

Nona nodded. “Oh yes, they were most certainly reported, though we did try to keep it all under the radar. Everyone on staff was interviewed by investigating officers, then reinterviewed by the museum’s administration. All of the exhibit halls on the second floor—including the one that housed the Oceania collection, where the thefts occurred—were undergoing major renovations
last February and March. The floor was crawling with painters and sanders and construction contractors for two full months. The police figured it had to have been someone from one of the contractors’ crews.”

“How many stones were taken?”

“Five.”

Christine’s mind was whirring. Five stones. Two dead girls. One with a charm stone in her throat.

“And the thefts were discovered when, exactly?”

“The third week of March, as the work was being completed. The administration considered postponing the formal reopening, but ultimately decided to go ahead as planned. Less bad publicity that way.” Her voice took on a sardonic tone. “We wouldn’t want to discourage any potential donors.”

“Right. Anything else?”

“Oddly, nothing,” Nona said. “Only the charm stones. Oh yes, and the feather mask from the mannequin in the same Oceania display. A pity to lose that gorgeous mask. We’ve substituted another one in, but it’s not quite as vivid. I helped with background flora in the exhibit.”