When She Was Bad

leather recliners that flanked the fireplace-Lilith returned alone. “Patty had to take a dump. She said for me to wait for her down here,” she announced as she plopped onto the sofa next to Max, breathing hard.

Damn, he thought, be a little more careful with your language, would you? Take a dump was pure Lilith, not like Lily at all. But Wally and Corder didn’t seem to notice anything amiss- they were too busy talking shop. Without mentioning names, Wally seemed to be complaining about one of the other psych techs, who was not, in Wally’s opinion, pulling his fair share of the load. As Corder promised to look into it, Lilith slipped something into the crack between the sofa cushions. Max shifted position to cover the motion with his thigh as he reached down and felt-

A knife. A steak knife with a sharp serrated blade a good four inches in length. Obviously Lilith had purloined it from a cabinet drawer while she was in the kitchen earlier. But as his fingers closed around the handle, Max sensed Kinch stirring in the darkness. Quickly Max slid the knife point-first into the front pocket of his chinos, and the stirring subsided.

And now the ball was in his court. “Hey, Wally?”

“Yeah, Lyss?”

“I think maybe I have to go to the little boy’s room.” Infantile, sure-but very Lyssy.

“You can use the one off the kitchen,” said Corder.

So far, so good. Max led the way; Wally followed close behind. “Hi, Lyssy, happy birthday, don’t peek,” called Alison as they passed through the kitchen. She was wearing one of her trampy Britney Spears outfits under an oversize letter sweater; she and her mother closed ranks in front of the kitchen table in order to hide the slightly lopsided birthday cake they were decorating.

A dark hallway led from the kitchen to the back door, with a pantry on the right and the bathroom door on the left. Max glanced behind him, past Wally, to make sure they were both well out of sight of the women in the kitchen, then grasped the doorknob and rattled it, as though the door were stuck or locked.

“Here, let me,” said Wally. Max stepped aside, slipping his hand into his pocket and palming the knife. Wally opened the door easily. “There you go,” he said, turning back to Max.

“And there you go,” said Max, as a gash like a second mouth sprouted under Wally’s chin, a ghastly, ear-to-ear grin spurting blood at both ends. Wally’s hands flew to his throat; blood welled through his clutching fingers as he dropped to his knees, staring up at Max with one of the saddest, most surprised expressions Max had ever seen-and he’d seen quite a few in his day.

It was over in seconds. When he stooped to wipe the blade clean on Wally’s shorts, Max caught a glimpse of the wristwatch on the corpse’s outflung arm, and discovered to his surprise that it wasn’t even quarter to six. Less than fifteen minutes had elapsed since they first entered the house, and yet the most difficult and potentially dangerous aspect of tonight’s business had already been successfully negotiated.

Which meant he might be able to enjoy the next part, the real fun part, in relative leisure. “Hey, Wal,” he said aloud, as Lyssy. “You know what, I think this is going to be the best birthday party ever!”

3

Pender parked the rent-a-car at the curb. The front doors of the Institute were open, but the grand lobby was largely deserted, and a security guard with Elvis sideburns now sat behind the reception desk. “Evening,” he said.

“Good evening,” said Irene; Pender nodded.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I need to…Well, to…“To what? Irene found herself wishing she’d thought this out a little more carefully on the way over. “Is Dr. Corder available, by any chance? I know it’s-”

The guard tapped a few strokes on a keyboard hidden beneath the high counter. “Sorry, he signed out an hour ago,” he said un-helpfully; your move, read his expression.

“All right, well, here’s the thing,” said Irene, then paused, momentarily appalled. Here’s the thing? She thought: how very glib! She soldiered on. “My name is Irene Cogan. Dr. Irene Cogan. I’m a psychiatrist.”

“Unh-hunh?” the guard grunted, with a rising inflection, as if to say, go on, this ought to be good.

“One of my patients-my former patients-is a patient here now,” she went on, trying not to sound quite so much like a potential customer herself. “Her name is Lily DeVries-is there any chance I might be able to see her?”

He consulted the computer again, shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t seem to find you on the list.”

“It’d only be for a second. I just want to-”

He cut her off. “Sorry. My orders are that all visitors have to be approved in advance by the patient’s doctor.”

“I understand,” said Irene. “But here’s the…“Whoops, she thought, and tried again. “Here’s the situation: I have some important information about Lily that her doctor needs to know.”

“And her doctor is…?”

“Dr. Corder is handling her case personally.”

“Then you should probably call him in the morning, because there’s nothing I can do for you tonight.”

“Oh, sure there is,” said Pender pleasantly but firmly; they were the first words he’d spoken since they’d entered.

“And you are?”

“E. L. Pender, Special Agent Emeritus, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He was, of course, counting on the guard having no idea what emeritus meant. “And what you can do for us,” he continued, without raising his voice, “and for yourself, assuming you’d like to keep your current position, or ever hold another job in the security industry, is get on the horn to whoever’s in charge of this facility at the present moment, and get him or her down here asap-that’s alpha sierra alpha papa, as in immediately, toot sweet, and pronto, do you copy?”

“Sure, whyn’t you say so in the first place?” grumbled the guard, turning his back to the visitors and picking up the telephone.

“Very impressive,” whispered Irene.

Pender winked. “Well, you know what Harry Truman said when he gave the order to drop the bomb on Hiroshima: ‘Sometimes you just have to get their attention.’”

4

Strained small talk in the living room:

“Are you enjoying your stay so far, Lily?”

“Yes, very much, thank you, Dr. Corder.”

“Everybody treating you all right?”

“Oh yeah, everybody couldn’t be nicer.”

“Good, good.” Thoughtful nod. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Do you have any Dubonnet?”

“I was thinking more in terms of something, ah, nonalcoholic.”

“That’s okay, never mind.”

Corder checked his watch. “Maybe I’d better go see what’s keeping everyone,” he said, but before he could push himself up from the deep recliner, his wife came stumbling through the archway, with a blood-spattered Ulysses Maxwell shuffling in lockstep behind her, holding a knife to her throat with one hand, half-dragging young Alison by her long blond hair with the other.