'I trust you slept well?' he asked.
'Not really,' Lucy said. 'I'm not sure I slept at all.'
'Understandable.'
'I think maybe you were right.'
'In what way?'
Lucy put down her purse, arranged herself in the chair. It too seemed different. Larger, somehow. She felt like a little kid sitting in it, or maybe Alice through the looking glass. 'When you said I may have opened a door yesterday. I think maybe I did.'
Mr. Costa smiled. 'This is wonderful news. What leads you to think this?'
On the way over, Lucy had debated whether or not to tell Mr. Costa about the man in the hotel. She decided to wait until after this session, to wait and see what, if anything, she got out of it. 'I'm not sure,' she said. 'It's just a feeling.'
The look on Mr. Costa's face indicated that he might not have believed her completely, but that it was okay. Lucy had the feeling that a lot of people said things like this to him — half-truths about their lives, their feelings.
'Are you comfortable?' he asked.
As comfortable as I have ever been, Lucy thought. For some reason.
'Yes,' she said. 'I'm fine.'
'Did you bring the notepad with you? The hotel notepad?'
Lucy reached into her bag, took out the notepad. She handed it to Mr. Costa but he put out his hands, palms toward her. 'No, this is for you to write on. Do you have a pen?'
'No,' Lucy said. 'Sorry.'
Mr. Costa reached into his coat pocket, took out a beautiful old fountain pen, uncapped it, handed it to Lucy. 'You will write something on the pad a little later.'
'Okay.'
'Are you ready to begin our session?'
'I am.'
'Now, I want you to close your eyes, and listen to the sound of my voice.'
Lucy was not floating above the town this time. This time she was sitting. No, she was kneeling, sort of. She was on her knees but leaning back on her heels. And she was afraid.
Where are you?
I'm in the dark. I have a blindfold on.
Do you know where you are?
No.
Are you inside or outside?
I'm inside. Inside a building.
Is the room large or small?
Small. It feels like a closet or something.
Where is the man?
I don't know.
Has he hurt you in any way?
I don't think so.
Are you alone?
Yes. But I met someone else. A girl.
How old is she?
She's my age.
What can you see?
When I take off the blindfold I see a keyhole in the door. I can see out of the keyhole. There's a table next to the sofa. There's something on it.
What is on the table?
It's shiny. It's kind of oval-shaped.
What is it? What is the shiny object?
It's a badge. A policeman's badge.
What are you wearing?
A dress. He put a dress on me.
What kind of dress?
A spangly dress. A grown-up dress. And he calls me Eve.
Eve? Who is Eve? Someone you know?
No. He means Eve in the Garden of Eden. Eve who was tempted by the apple.
Can you see his face?
No. Not yet. But I can see his hand. He wears a big ring.
What kind of ring?
It looks like a snake. It looks like a ring in the shape of a snake.
Suddenly, in her dream world, Lucy Doucette felt herself falling. She sensed that someone was trying to save her. Someone or something.
No. It was the darkness itself. She reached out — a ring in the shape of a snake… the snake in the Garden of Eden -
— and let the darkness take her.
Chapter 33
Joseph Novak sat in Interview A, one of the two cramped and oppressive interrogation rooms at the homicide unit. They did not have much, and they probably wouldn't have been able to bring him in without his consent, but he'd run. People don't realize that once you run from the police it opens a big can of possibilities. It immediately establishes a hostile relationship. What might once have been a conversation that moved gently from casual to mild inquisitiveness now began with doubt and suspicion.
Even if you had to cut people loose, sometimes you got lucky. A lot of it had to do with the nature of the case itself, the heat generated not only within the department and the district attorney's office but also with the public. If a case broke open in the public consciousness, pressure was brought to bear on law enforcement to produce results, therefore detectives put the pressure on DAs, who worked a little harder on judges, and as a result search warrants and body warrants were granted with a little more leeway. When you searched a house or car you never knew what the search would produce. Warrants were the handmaidens of criminal charges, even when you had no idea what you were looking for.
They let Novak simmer in Interview A for a few minutes. Interview A at the unit didn't look anything like the interrogation rooms on TV. On TV the rooms had soft gray walls, dramatic lighting, clean carpeting, expensive furnishings, and were usually the size of an average living room. In reality, at least in Philly homicide, the real room was about six by eight, not much bigger than your average jail cell — which was not an accident of design.
There were no windows, just the two-way mirror, which was not much bigger than a magazine. Then there were the bright fluorescent lights overhead, the bolted-down chairs, and the short-legged table. No matter how often the room was cleaned, or even painted, it held onto the faint odors of urine and bleach. All in all, it was the Philadelphia equivalent of a visit to George Orwell's Room 101. Or so the Homicide Unit hoped.
If you had claustrophobia issues and you heard that door close, the bolt slide on the other side, you started to come apart. More than one tough guy had blurted a confession after an hour or two inside Hotel Homicide.
Jessica sat across from Novak. Byrne stood, leaning against the wall next to the observation window. Novak sat dispassionately in the bolted- down chair, his face void of all expression.
Byrne put the large file box on the table. It was almost empty but Novak didn't need to know that. Novak glanced at the box, then turned his attention back to Byrne.
