When Darkness Falls(55)

Before heading to Van Nuys where the psychiatrist had said she could meet, Haley made another round of calls. The first person she reached told her he’d moved out of state. Another offered a place to stay tomorrow, but was traveling and couldn’t help for tonight. Another suggested Haley stop by the Iguana, a coffeehouse where she and Brian used to play when they were in town. It was open mike night, and some regulars might be there who could help.

Half an hour before sunset, Haley pulled into a strip mall of sun-bleached stucco buildings on Sepulveda Boulevard. She wondered how successful this psychiatrist had been, given the flimsy, faded look of the buildings. But it wasn’t as if anyone else had offered to talk with her. And most construction in the San Fernando Valley area struck her as cheap-looking compared to Chicago’s sleek glass and steel skyscrapers and sturdy brick graystones and brownstones. It probably didn’t mean anything.

There were four names on the door, none of which were the psychiatrist Haley had spoken to, but the address was correct. Inside the narrow beige and aquamarine reception area, the air felt dry and warm. Haley rang a bell at the deserted front counter. Construction paper flowers had been taped to the wall behind it.

A gray-haired woman wearing a gauze skirt, a red and orange print blouse, and red lipstick appeared from the back. “I’m Dr. Kenyon.” She held out her hand to shake Haley’s. “Come on back.”

A desk stood in a corner of the office Dr. Kenyon led her to. It smelled of incense. From a small, square refrigerator, the doctor offered Haley a bottle of Evian.

Green and yellow armchairs and a love seat formed a seating area in the center of the room. Rather than sitting behind the desk, Dr. Kenyon chose the armchair opposite Haley. “On the phone you said you had questions about my research. But it sounded like there are some personal issues as well.”

“There are.” Haley sipped the water and cleared her throat. “It’s my husband. He has this friend. A former lover. She told him she’s turned him into some sort of vampire. And he seems to believe her.”

Dr. Kenyon leaned forward. “Some sort of vampire? She used that word?”

“Not exactly.” Haley explained as much as she could, keeping an eye on her watch, conscious of not wanting to use too much of whatever time Dr. Kenyon was willing to share.

When Haley finished, Dr. Kenyon asked, “Does Devon have any history of being fascinated with blood? Perhaps of cutting himself?”

Haley shook her head. “Not that I know of. He doesn’t have any scars. And Al, who’s like a father to him, never mentioned anything.”

“And you’ve known Devon how long?”

“Less than a year. Seven months.”

“So if he engaged in some sort of self cutting that didn’t leave scars, you wouldn’t know.”

Haley looked down at her hands. “I wouldn’t. But if he did do something like that, and Al knew about it, Al would have insisted he get help.”

“You’ve known Al the same amount of time as Devon, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know anything about Lydia’s history?”

“Next to nothing. Though Devon said she cut herself in front of him. But then, she didn’t really, because she healed right away. So it had to be some sort of trick.”

A window behind Dr. Kenyon opened to the four-lane street behind the clinic. Sunlight still shone onto the roadway and its concrete center island, but the light had a gray cast. It’d be sunset soon.

“What about violence? Any history of it in Devon’s family?”

“I don’t think so. I know there was a lot of drinking. And his father was a schizophrenic.” Haley added the last part because the book had described people with this disorder as psychotics and schizophrenics. “But I don’t think Devon is. I mean, wouldn’t I see signs of serious mental illness?”

“Some symptoms stay hidden for quite a long time. But because Devon’s father was schizophrenic doesn’t mean he is. Some studies show a genetic component to schizophrenia, but no single organic cause has been identified. You understand, though, that I can’t diagnose people I’ve never seen. I’m asking these questions for context so I can help you.”

Haley shifted in her chair, took another drink of water, and finally asked the question she’d been putting off. “Could Devon really have killed those women?”

“Only Devon can answer that,” Dr. Kenyon said. “Or maybe he can’t. What concerns me most for your safety is that he believes he may have.”

“But he seems to believe this vampire thing, too, and it can’t be true.”

“It can’t be true that he literally is a vampire, or that Lydia is. But she could very well believe she is one and be harming people. And he could as well.”

“But from the book, it sounded like that sort of disorder doesn’t start out of nowhere, right?” Haley said. “It doesn’t appear suddenly?”

“It usually starts in childhood. Or adolescence. But you don’t know anything about those time periods in Lydia’s life, and very little about Devon’s.”

“Doesn’t it mean something that Devon has questions about what Lydia told him? He’s not convinced this is happening to him.”

Dr. Kenyon’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen and shut it off. “Again, I can’t diagnose someone whom I’ve never seen or treated. Based on what you’ve said, he needs help. Is there any chance he’ll return to Chicago and see his psychiatrist again? Or see someone here?”