to bring her back.
“Amy,” Joe said. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Ann Arbor,” she said, wheezing. Her breathing seemed to be less labored.
Amy shut her eyes, her thin chest rising and falling as she concentrated on trying to breathe. The girl must have had attacks before, Joe thought, because she seemed to be calming herself down now.
Joe waited, her arm around Amy. The girl’s skin was pale and clammy. But at least her breathing had returned to near normal.
“Are you okay now?” Joe asked.
Amy nodded, her eyes closed.
“You had a bad dream,” Joe said.
Amy’s eyes shot open. “It wasn’t a dream. I saw it. I saw the barn and the ropes and the hook. I saw the hole in the ground.”
Joe hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do was make the girl remember things that might trigger another asthma attack or worse. But this could be an opening to a crucial memory about her mother’s death.
“Amy,” Joe said gently, “is someone buried out there at the farm?”
Amy nodded.
“Who was buried?”
“I don’t know.”
“But there’s a grave out there?” Joe asked.
“Yes.”
“Could you show us?”
Amy looked to the door again. “Is he gone? It’s important that he’s gone now.”
“Yes. Amy, talk to me. Can you show us where the grave is?”
Amy pushed back her hair, her gaze moving around the room as if she was suddenly unsure what had happened. Her eyelids drooped, filming over with the need for sleep. She was leaving again, and Joe wished she could reach into that complicated little brain and bring her back.
“Okay, Amy, lie down.”
Amy nodded and adjusted herself, but she didn’t stretch out on the blanket. She curled forward, tucked her knees up, and laid her head on Joe’s knee.
Joe sat still, not sure what to do or how much affection to show this girl. She knew she wouldn’t be here long enough to walk Amy through the tough days and months to come, and she didn’t want Amy to become too attached.
But even as she thought about that, her hand went to Amy’s hair, and she found herself gently brushing a few strands back so she could see Amy’s face.
“Now what?” Louis asked.
Shockey had returned from the store and was standing at the bedroom door watching Amy sleep. They had briefed him on what Amy had said.
“I don’t know what happens now,” Shockey said. “I’d like to think we have a witness to Jean’s murder, but this is a pretty weird situation. We’d have to convince a judge that what she told you wasn’t a nightmare but a real memory.”
“What happens to her if we do?” Louis asked.
“We take her into protective custody as a material witness,” Shockey said. “Something like that would at least give a judge a good reason not to return her to Brandt.”
“We don’t have enough information,” Joe said. “I don’t think any judge will believe she saw Brandt kill her mother based on what she said. Not to mention that she was only four when it happened, and she’s not very stable now.”
Louis rose and walked a small, slow circle around the room. “What about a psychiatrist?” he asked. “Someone who can draw more of the memory from her.”
“That’s a good idea,” Shockey said.
“Hypnosis?” Joe asked. “Eyewitness testimony elicited under hypnosis is not admissible. You both know that.”
“Yeah, but maybe we’d get a lead out of it that we could verify ourselves,” Shockey said. “She told you someone’s buried out there. Maybe she can take us to Jean’s body. And we sure as hell can use that.”
Joe chewed her lip, her eyes on the closed bedroom door.
“Do you know someone, Shockey?” Louis asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I do,” Shockey said. “She’s retired now but used to specialize in kid psychiatry. We used her in court a lot. Her name’s Mary Sher. I’ll call her first thing in the morning.”
Joe’s eyes went from Shockey to Louis, a slow burn of irritation building inside her. It was probably a good idea to have Amy assessed for mental competency. But these two seemed more concerned with the case than with the girl’s fragility. And there was no way Amy was going to let two men take her anywhere without going into hysterics.
Joe pushed away from the sofa and walked to the phone. Neither Shockey nor Louis paid her any attention as she called Mike Villella. When she hung up, she turned back to them.
“Okay, I’m staying until Friday,” she said. “I’ll take Amy to the doctor — alone.”
Chapter Fifteen
There was a bright red whirligig bird stuck on a stick in the lawn. Its wooden wings spun in the wind. Amy was watching it intently.
Finally, she turned to Joe and gave a small smile. “There are a lot of wah-wahs in the yard,” she said.
Joe had been looking at all the lawn ornaments — gnomes in the barren flower beds, a blue gazing ball on a stone pedestal, a pair of plastic fairies, and a flock of pink plastic flamingos — and at first she didn’t think she heard Amy right.
“Wah-wahs?” she asked.
Amy nodded. “That’s what Aunt Geneva called them, the things people put in their yards. She said they were stupid, but I like them. They make a house look happy, like it has toys to play with.”
Joe let it go. “Come on, Amy, let’s go in.”
She led the girl up onto the porch, which was strung with a dozen wind chimes. Amy waited patiently while Joe rang the bell, her gaze traveling over the chimes dancing to a discordant symphony of tinkles and clicks. Joe hadn’t told Amy where they were going or why. And when they had pulled up in front of Mary Sher’s bungalow, Joe was glad to see there was no sign announcing it as a doctor’s office. There had been no repeat of Amy’s strange behavior since last night, and Joe was hoping this visit wouldn’t bring on another.
Joe rang the bell again.
A shrink…
Her own experience with psychiatrists was limited to the one trip mandated by a state police captain after the ambush that had left two of her fellow Echo Bay officers dead. She hated sitting in that office with that doctor’s eyes locked on her, like he knew secrets about her that he would never tell. It made her feel… invaded and exposed. And she didn’t want Amy to feel that way any more than she already did.
The door opened. A small woman of about sixty, with a pink face surrounded by a corona of red curly hair, smiled up at her.
“Hello, you must be Joe Frye,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Mary Sher.”
Joe shook the woman’s small, warm hand. She felt Amy hovering behind and stepped aside.
“And you’re Amy,” Dr. Sher said.
Amy just stared at the woman, then nodded, her face disappearing behind the curtain of her hair.
“Please come in. It’s nice and warm inside.”
Dr. Sher led them through French doors and into a living room of old plush furniture, dark paneling, and
