City Dark(56)

“We’re just walking,” Robbie said, looking straight ahead. Joe knew he should follow Robbie’s lead, but the woman’s face was soft and inviting. Everything about it seemed round—the curve of her chin, the red of her cheeks, the pug nose. Her mouth was like a little red target with a cigarette in it.

“Are you hungry?”

“Us?” Robbie asked. “No, I mean—”

“Kind of,” Joe said. The fact was, they were both famished but hadn’t had a chance to think about it. There had been no food since lunch, and Lois had quashed any requests for dinner on the road. It was “wait till we get to your uncle’s” and nothing else.

“We don’t . . . we don’t have any money,” Robbie said to the sidewalk.

“Money, what’s money? Everything we have goes bad if we don’t serve it. Come in.” The words came out in a funny string, each syllable stressed like the one before it.

“It looks like adults only, though,” Robbie said. Indeed, there were no kids inside, just drunk, sweaty grown-ups, mostly at the bar. At the tables, couples leaned in close.

“Et alors? Come in.”





CHAPTER 47


Monday, August 21, 2017

St. Lawrence Psychiatric Center

Ogdensburg, New York

1:05 p.m.

Aideen had learned from psychologists over the years that, in the presence of psychopaths, a decent percentage of people actually felt something physically distressing, like hair going up on the back of the neck. For her, though, there was none of that, and she had been around her share of psychopaths. That morning she had hopped a quick flight from LaGuardia up to Ottawa, Canada, rented a car, and driven over the International Bridge back into New York State in order to reach the psychiatric center where Aaron Hathorne was confined for at least another eleven months.

The center itself was just on the US side of the bridge. The grounds still held some terrifying stone buildings from the nineteenth century; one could almost hear the screams of the chained patients who had been housed there. The modern facility, though, was clean and friendly. From the outside it looked like an elementary school, with a circular driveway in front and a little portico. She signed in and was searched, then followed a pleasant female attendant with a Nigerian accent to the room where Aaron Hathorne had been directed to wait for her.

He was seated at a plain wooden table, his hands clasped neatly in front of him, dressed in a plaid shirt, khakis, and loafers without socks. The room was a small library, like one found in a law office, with book stacks, a copier, and some office supplies on a table. For a fleeting moment she pictured the Hannibal character from The Silence of the Lambs and wondered how many things in the room Hathorne could kill her with. That passed.

“Hello, Ms. Bradigan,” he said, looking up at her as she walked in. His speech was soft but clipped and clear, the diction of a well-educated person. He stood to his full height, which was a good foot or more above Aideen’s. He was whippet thin and wiry, with long hair, gray and gathered around a narrow face.

“Aideen Bradigan, yes,” she said. He motioned to an empty chair opposite him, then offered his hand. He seemed hesitant, as if he expected her to reject the gesture. Instead, she thought, I guess if I’m going to feel creeped out, this is how it’ll happen. She shook his hand firmly, and it went limp like a damp rag. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, but it didn’t sick her out either. So the guy had a terrible handshake? That was the least negative thing about him.

“Please, sit down,” he said, doing so himself. She set her briefcase on the table. Opening it, she pulled out a legal pad, a pen, and some notes she had taken previously.

“Thanks for agreeing to speak with me, Dr. Hathorne,” she said. “I’ll try to make this quick.”

“I’ve got nothing but time, Ms. Bradigan,” he said, a little grin turning up the corners of his mouth. The lips were thin and purplish. “But I won’t blame you if you don’t want to linger in my company.”

“I’ve met all kinds,” she said, a breezy quip relayed with an elevated tone and a jaunty lift of one shoulder. Neither damning nor affirming, it was exactly the tone she wanted to convey.

“And you’re wondering if I’m the kind who could destroy Joseph DeSantos with some astonishingly elaborate scheme from behind these walls.”

“I’m just gathering information that might be relevant.”

“And what could I possess that’s relevant? DeSantos is a serial murderer with volcanic rage impulses. It’s simple.”

“I’m not sure it’s simple, actually. That’s why I’m here.”

“Well, it’s no inconvenience to me,” he said, lifting his right hand a few inches and then flipping it, palm up, “but I can assure you, I am not relevant to what’s wrong with your client. If you want ideas, I could offer a few. I’ve forgotten more psychology than the people who try to treat me here. But I’m guessing you’re well advised.”

“Well, you sued my client, Dr. Hathorne. Far more than that, you made attempts at uncovering facts about his personal life. Serious attempts, and some were successful.”

“And I never,” he said, leaning forward, “thought I’d uncover what DeSantos has now exposed about himself.” His eyes widened a little, and she almost nudged her chair back.