Face of Evil Page 3

  “Eagle,” she says out loud, her fingers darting for the keys. A few carefully-framed queries later, she has her lead. A story from the Decanten Chronicle over a decade ago:

  Saint Catherine’s bids farewell to much-loved teacher. Staff and pupils gathered for a special assembly to thank Dorothy Eagle, 66, for almost half a century of service…

  With a quick tap, Lydia opens a new window and enters the details to search the electoral roll. There’s only one match. A smug smile spreads across Lydia’s face. She checks her watch. It’s ten-thirty. Too late? She reaches for her phone, but it lights up before she even touches it.

  New Voicemail

  announces the screen.

  Unknown Caller

  With some trepidation, Lydia taps the notification to hear the message.

  Three

  Monster

  “Nervous?” asks Gretchen, tapping in a security code on a chunky metal keypad beside a heavy steel door.

  “A little,” Lydia admits. This place is designed to make a person nervous, she believes. The corridors they walked to get here are narrow and claustrophobic, such that the footsteps of two people reverberate around them in a foreboding cacophony. The door in front of them has no window, and when Gretchen finishes punching the numbers and its lock clicks, Lydia’s instinctive human fear of the unknown kicks in. She has learned over the years to suppress the fight or flight reflex, but there are limits even to her mastery of the mind. Her heart rate quickens as Gretchen pushes the door open. Lydia closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and follows the doctor inside.

  Everything is a dirty off-white in here; the walls, floors, lights, everything but the man in the orange jumpsuit sitting on the far side of a large, wide window that Lydia recognises immediately as a two-way mirror. He is hunched forward, long, lank strands of dirty brown hair hiding his face, but not out of reserve or shyness. Lydia at once understands that this is for her benefit. A performance, to prolong her anticipation, to feed her fear. And it’s working. She feels her heart quicken, and breathes deeply in order to counter it, forcing herself to look at him. Even bound and still, Devere has a powerful aura, the broad shoulders, the wiry frame, strong forearms resting on the table. An animal caged, but not tamed. Subdued, but not broken.

  Next to the window is another door, guarded by a middle-aged man in a pale grey uniform. Asylum camouflage, Lydia thinks, making a mental note of the phrase for her book. The man holds out the palm of his large hand and Lydia glances inquiringly at her companion.

  “Your bag,” says Gretchen. “It’s procedure.”

  Lydia hands over the bag. “Of course,” she says airily, but she’s resentful of the lack of trust. Or perhaps more pointedly the lack of deference. Don’t they know who she is? The thought makes her ashamed, and she tries to banish it. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

  “What’s that?” Gretchen replies, her flat tone of voice speaking to an exhausted mind.

  “Does Jason talk much about his childhood?”

  Gretchen peers at her through that thick, red-gold hair, a look half suspicion and half understanding. “Sometimes,” she says finally. “Why do you ask?”

  “I was just wondering,” Lydia replies, casually. “Just because, you know, a lot of the issues with people like him are rooted in childhood experiences. Parents, friends, school…” She watches Gretchen’s eyes carefully, and the doctor seems to sense that she’s being read because she looks away.

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I will.”

  “But don’t trust the answers.” Gretchen turns back to her, that odd duality in her eyes again that Lydia cannot place. The frustration causes her to flex her fingers gently.

  “Don’t worry,” Lydia smiles, “I know when I’m being lied to.”

  “Do you?” Gretchen’s eyebrow lifts ever so slightly.

  “I’ve interviewed plenty of murderers.”

  “Not like this one, you haven’t.”

  “What do you mean?” Lydia asks sharply, unable to conceal her irritation at this stranger’s presumptuousness.

  Gretchen looks through the window at the still man. “He’s dangerous.”

  “They’re all dangerous, aren’t they?” says Lydia, waving a hand as if to gesture at the asylum itself. “I mean why else would they be here?”

  “He’s different,” says Gretchen. She sees the incredulous look on Lydia’s face and sighs wearily. “You’ll see.”

  Lydia studies the doctor’s face for a moment. She is beautiful, or was at any rate before this place sucked the life out of her. Is she batting away these questions because she’s tired or because there’s something she doesn’t want Lydia to know? “Any advice?” Lydia asks as the guard rifles through her personal property, every click of lipstick, of phone, of keys setting her teeth on edge.

  “He might not say very much,” Gretchen offers. “He doesn’t like these situations. Sessions. Interviews. I think he finds them quite impertinent.”

  I know that feeling, Lydia thinks, and as if sensing her empathy Jason Devere turns his pale face, surrounded by long, dirty, matted hair, to look at her. And smiles. A shiver runs all the way up Lydia’s spine and then washes over her whole body like a frozen, crashing wave. She had compared him to a wild animal, and now she knows what kind of animal he is. The sly eyes, the hungry mouth, the power, the effortless confidence. A motionless swagger. Jason Devere is a wolf, and he can smell blood in the air.

  “Can he see us?”

  Gretchen glances through the window. “No,” she replies, but she too looks slightly unnerved. “I guess he knows we’re coming, so…”

  “Right,” says Lydia. That sounds plausible. Yet she remains unconvinced.

  “Okay,” grunts the guard, handing back Lydia’s bag. There are many men of few words who conceal fascinating personalities, but he, she decides, is not one of them.

  “Thank you.” She takes the bag and steps forward through the door as he opens it. It creaks. Everything in this place seems to generate its own sounds, as though the building itself is alive. Devere’s eyes follow her as she enters the stark room, tracking her like a predator. There is a smirk not just playing about his lips, but deep in his eyes as well that she does not like one little bit. But her gaze passes over the chains around his wrists and ankles that bind him to the ground, then to the guard who has joined her inside the room, and she knows that she is safe. She knows it, even if she doesn’t quite feel it. She also notes that Gretchen has not joined her, and Lydia wonders if the doctor is watching them from behind the mirror as she makes her way to a single metal chair some six feet from the bound patient. He hasn’t spoken yet. Gretchen had warned her.

  “Hello, Jason,” she begins, polite and confident. She declines to offer him a smile. That’s what he would be expecting, she thinks, from somebody who wants something from him. That they would be friendly. Overly so, perhaps. But Lydia wants to get a feel for her opponent first, to lure him out of his shell and then offer him kindness when she decides it will benefit her the most. “I assume you’ve been told why I’m here?”

  Jason Devere says nothing; his expression barely moves, but his eyes give him away. They are burning with a ferocity that betrays the cool front he wants her to see. He’s excited. He wants her to be here. That’s good. She can use that.

  “We can sit in silence for as long as you like,” Lydia says, placing her bag on the ground and her hands in her lap. “Doctor Engel tells me that is your favourite way to pass the time.”

  Jason Devere shrugs lightly.

  “To be honest,” says Lydia airily, “I think she’s a little hurt that you don’t want to be friends.”

  No response.

  “Is there something about her in particular, or is it just people in general to whom you object?” She pauses for effect. “Or maybe just women?”

  A flicker of irritation travels over his face. It’s a tiny tell that Lydia only sees because she’s expecting it, but it’s definitely
there. Lydia already knows that Jason isn’t that kind of monster, but suggesting that he might be scores her two points in a single stroke. It wounds Jason’s pride, makes him want to open up and let her know that he isn’t what she thinks he is, and it invites him to underestimate her. Just another dime store psychologist. His mistake.

  “Well,” she presses on, being careful to hide her satisfaction, “what Doctor Engel may not have mentioned is that I’m here to offer you a deal.”

  Jason sits back in his chair, like a king ready to receive his subjects with easy generosity. He’s interested.

  “As I’m sure you know I’m a very influential person.” Lydia’s arrogance comes easily, but in this case it is deliberate. Gloating, she finds, is an exceptionally reliable way to irk those in captivity. “I can make your life here considerably more comfortable than it is now.” She lets the idea percolate. Let him imagine the possibilities. “If,” she says finally, “you give me what I want.”

  Jason Devere’s mouth begins to open, slowly, as though choosing his words even as they begin to form. “And what would that be?” His voice is low, but confident. Not the growl that she expected, but clear and strong, and packed with indecipherable subtlety. A cold sensation ripples around Lydia’s heart. Was it fear she was feeling? Or satisfaction that she had truly found her worthy case study that she had so hoped for?

  “To hear your story, of course.” Lydia feigns innocence. She knows he will see right through it. Let him believe that he can read her.

  “I’m sure you read my story in the newspapers.”

  “Oh, come now, Jason,” Lydia leans forward conspiratorially, “I know better than to believe everything I read in the newspapers.”

  Jason smirks. He can’t help himself. He’s flattered by this beautiful woman’s interest in him. He enjoys the hint of playfulness in her response. He likes games. Lydia knows as much from reading his patient file. She returns his smirk, acknowledging the connection they’ve made, giving him the approval he doesn’t even realise he wants.

  “What do you say, Jason?”

  He thinks for a moment. He doesn’t want to seem too keen. He wants to be in charge, to dictate the terms. “What sort of things can you do for me in here?” he asks finally, raising his shackled wrists pointedly.

  “Well, I’ll have to speak to the warden,” Lydia replies. This is true of course, but she is at any rate not about to make any cast-iron promises. Not yet. She doesn’t need to. The suggestion of reward will be enough to get the ball rolling. “But I’m sure he’s prepared to be quite flexible, in exchange for favourable publicity.”

  “I want books,” says Jason quickly. “Paper, pencils, that sort of thing.” He’s leaning forward now, and the pose accentuates his strong jaw. He’s quite handsome, Lydia thinks. Or at least, he used to be.

  “That sounds…” Lydia chooses her words carefully, “possible.”

  Jason throws back his shaggy, matted hair and laughs a deep, rasping laugh. “Possible?” Jason repeats. He’s positively beaming now. He’s got her all figured out. Just the way she planned. “You’re going to have to do better than that. I want it in writing.”

  “Okay,” Lydia replies. Her expression has slipped back to pleasant, neutral. Don’t go too hard, too soon. The doctors here could learn a thing or two from her. She glances at the two-way mirror. Had Gretchen been watching this whole time? Had she figured out what Lydia was doing?

  “Okay what?” Jason has cooled off a little too. There’s a hint of frustration in his voice.

  “Okay, I’ll put it all in writing and sign it for you when I next visit.” Lydia reaches down by her side to pick up her bag.

  “When will that be?”

  “I’m not sure,” Lydia lies. “That depends on Doctor Engel’s schedule.” She gets to her feet and slings the bag over her shoulder. “It was nice to meet you, Jason.” The farewell is intentionally abrupt. She’s almost to the door when Jason makes the attempt to extend their brief time together that she is hoping for.

  “Why me?” he calls out. Lydia smiles, but checks herself before she turns around.

  “You’re… different.”

  “You can say that again.” Jason tries to act casual, but the heavy chains that bind him clink and rattle. “You’re going to have quite a job figuring me out.”

  “I like a challenge.” Lydia smiles again, inclining her head such that her blonde locks tumble over her eyes. She sweeps them back with those slender fingers and tucks them behind her ear.

  “So do I,” replies Jason. The feral smirk is back, and for the briefest second Lydia questions herself.

  Four

  A Difficult Lesson

  A shrill scream pierces the late-afternoon sky and Lydia tenses as a pair of children no older than four or five thunder past her through powdery snow, almost trampling her feet in the process, and make for the tyre swings on one side of the large, square playpark. She mutters a curse under her breath, holds up a hand to shield her eyes from the sinking sun, and peers around. At the far side of the park, an elderly woman sits alone on a bench, watching the kids play. She looks so at home that Lydia decides this must be a routine for her, a way of mitigating the loneliness that haunts so many people in their waning years.

  Being especially careful to take the widest possible berth around any more children, Lydia crosses the concrete square to join her. “Mrs Eagle?”

  “What gave me away?” the old woman replies, without looking at her. Close up, Lydia notes her hooked nose, thick eyebrows and lank, white hair that sticks to her head and neck. You look like an eagle, she thinks, but resists the urge to say it out loud.

  “You look like a teacher,” she offers instead.

  “Not that I’m twice as old as anyone else here?”

  “Sure, that too.”

  Mrs Eagle turns her head, with some effort Lydia thinks, and gives her an appraising look. “So, you’re a journalist, are you?”

  “An author,” Lydia replies, sitting down on the bench, crossing her legs and slipping her phone from her bag.

  Dorothy Eagle takes Lydia in, from stiletto heels to tumbling blonde locks. “Mills and Boon?”

  “Psychology and criminology. Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

  “Goodness me, why?” The old woman eyes the phone suspiciously.

  “So that I can transcribe it later on.”

  “Don’t you have a life?”

  “Not to speak of, no.”

  “Or perhaps not in daylight hours.” Mrs Eagle’s eyes linger disapprovingly on Lydia’s slender, black-stockinged legs.

  Lydia blinks. Did she just call me a prostitute?

  “Very well,” the teacher waves a hand weakly at the phone, “if you must.”

  “Thank you.” Lydia taps the screen and sets the phone down on the bench between them. Dorothy continues to watch it, warily. “So, like I said on the phone, I’d like to talk about—”

  “Jason, yes I remember. It was only a few hours ago. My brains are not mush, I’ll have you know.” She pulls her coat and scarf tighter around her to protect against the winter chill. “Not yet.”

  “Right,” says Lydia, “because I was talking to his doctor and—”

  “Doctor!” Dorothy snorts, huffily. “Is that what they call the maniacs in that place?”

  “Mortem?”

  “That is where he is, isn’t it?” The teacher looks down her crooked nose at Lydia, who is suddenly and powerfully reminded of her own school days, a precocious child feeling condescended to, frustrated and powerless.

  “Yes, I saw him there this morning.”

  “Oh you did?” Dorothy sniffs. “Then what on earth are you talking to me for?”

  “Well, as I was saying,” Lydia is too tired to bother disguising her impatience, “his doctor told me that he often talks about his childhood, and that he mentioned you in particular.” The old woman’s dull eyes widen a little, but she says nothing, so Lydia continues. “So I was wondering wh
at you might remember about him.”

  “Oh, it was so long ago.” The teacher lifts a withered hand and flicks it dismissively, “I’ve taught so many children. After a while they all just sort of blend into each other.”

  “I’m sure.” Lydia eyes a little boy kicking a ball nearby.

  “You don’t have children, do you?” says Dorothy. It’s more a statement than a question, and Lydia glances at her to see that the teacher is reading her expression. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

  “No.”

  “Yes, you don’t look the type.”

  Lydia opens her mouth to enquire just what it is about her that screams ‘childless whore’, but thinks better of it. Not the time to open up that particular can of worms. “Do you?” she asks instead.

  “A son,” Dorothy replies, “and two grandchildren.” Lydia notes that the old woman’s face doesn’t show any sign of joy when talking about her family.

  “How old are they?”

  “Oh, they’re teenagers now.”

  “Do you see much of them?”

  “No, but I’m not sad about that. They’re both fairly ugly and not very bright. I get more stimulation from the weather forecast.” Lydia’s eyebrows rise slightly. “But you have to love them, don’t you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t know. How could you?”

  “Well,” Lydia says, “I don’t necessarily think you need first-hand experience of something in order to understand it.”

  Dorothy Eagle looks at her with unmistakable pity. “And you’re a psychologist, are you?”

  “That’s what my degree says,” Lydia replies, coolly.

  “Did you learn about hubris?” Dorothy cracks a smile for the first time. Lydia can’t tell if the emotion behind it is deliberately unkind or not, but either way she doesn’t like it. Turning her head away for a moment, she feels a light draft on the back of her neck as a man in a long, grey overcoat passes behind the bench. He’s walking a large German Shepherd on a leash, and by the time Lydia’s gaze drifts from dog to man, he’s ten feet away with his back turned. Her mind idly begins to profile him, but there isn’t much to go on and as he reaches the playground gate, she loses interest.