“Beth did, every day. She said they madethe place look nicer, especially since Charlie left the rest such a mess.”
Kerri’s eyes were quick; she’d heard hardened,experienced cops say there was so much behind them, recording,connecting, moving like benign lasers around the toughest crime scenes. Now shescanned again, from the window to the white column, then back toward thebathroom.
“The shower stall mist. Did you see the facein there again? A second time?”
“No. Just one sold-out appearance.”
“Were you able to make it go away or did itstay?”
“I wiped it away.” Liddy gave a shudder. “Itstayed gone, but now seems to have moved to my studio – the face just appeared ina painting. When you see it, you’ll really want to call the booby hatch.”
Kerri shook her head. “No, show me.”
Lady Macbeth and nearly every case inHank’s file were defensive and irrationally vain, always seeing themselves asvictims - never sad sacks attempting humor, poking fun at themselves suggestingyou call the funny farm. In fact, without exception they were devoid of humor.
“This isn’t a waste of police time?” Liddyasked as they crossed the living room. “Spending time with a crazy person whosees ghosts?”
“You’re not crazy,” Kerri said. “Let’s seethat painting.”
41
The eyes wereheartbreaking, and the young woman’s lips were parted in anguish, as if cryingout the words Help me still dripping beneath. Liddy herself wassurprised at how lurid she’d made the colors, the hysterical flailing of figuresterrified and terrorizing in mortal struggle. Kerri, after staring at thepainting for long moments, commented on that: hysterical or not, the work was aclear depiction of good battling evil.
“I must have been in a trance,” Liddy said,slumped on the window seat clutching a throw pillow.
Kerry looked at her. “Subconscious art isthe most honest.” She went back to the painting and frowned. Odd: muchof it was still wet, colors had slid, but the tearful, begging face and the cryfor help beneath it stayed suspended. From the letter p in Help a dropof red had slid down and become a small ruby, hanging, growing.
Whew. This was something.
Kerri took Liddy’s chair at her draftsman’stable; studied the drooping figure across from her. “Have you ever believed inghosts? Like, as a kid?”
“No.” Faint head shake. “Used to laugh atScooby Doo and his ghosts.”
“That’s a cartoon.”
“That’s where ghosts belong. In cartoons.Scare novels.”
“Ever read Turn of the Screw?”
“Tried to. Found the text turgid. Startedthe movie and stopped it.”
“Why?”
“Depressing. You know the governess isdoomed.”
So she’d liked cartoons as a kid, neverbelieved in ghosts, and avoided depressing stories. This was not a person proneto hysteria or wild, unhappy subjects. Kerri tapped her index fingerthoughtfully on the drawing table, then asked, “You paint thriller book coversmostly?”
Nod.
“Why is that?”
An indifferent shrug. “That’s where there’sthe most demand. I started out doing romance covers and a few non-fictioncovers, then did one thriller and the publisher went ape, spread the word and Ifound myself in demand.”
So she’d backed into the thriller thing,hadn’t sought it out. Kerri glanced up to the window behind Liddy. The uppersash was open a little but the alarm was on.
She asked about that.
“Oh.” Liddy turned to look up, then with agroan climbed onto the window seat, pushed the top sash closed and locked it. “Thetop part isn’t connected to the alarm,” she said, scrunching back down to her pillowon the window seat. “I paint with oils, too, and turpentine fumes are toxic, sowe just had the bottom sash wired to let the top open, let out the fumes.”
She glanced at the wires and small bits ofhardware stretched across the sill behind her. “But alarms can’t keep outghosts, can they?” she grimaced, looking back with a shudder. “I’ve become afraidto fall asleep. Just looking at the bed makes me spaz and think, nooo, what’stonight going to bring?”
Kerri’s eyes were sympathetic. She noddedand said, very quietly, “I’ve been there.”
Liddy raised surprised eyes to her. “You?You seem so strong.”
“No one’s that strong.” Kerri inhaled. “I’vegone what felt like months without sleep, seeing a shrink who didn’t help,stumbling through days. I just had to muddle through it.” She saw Liddy’s eyesopen wider, so she shrugged; continued.
“One night two years ago I found myself on aroof with a perp’s gun in my face, his finger starting to pull the trigger. Iknew I was dead.” A hesitation; the words speeded up. “The SOB had to make iteven more terrifying by pressing his knee on my chest, pushing his barrel to myhead screaming how he couldn’t wait to see my brains splatter all over…and then”– she gestured – “bang, there was a shot and blood and brains didsplatter - only not mine, my partner Alex saved me, shot the slime who fellon me, bleeding, his face all exploded, his brain squish running down my neck.”
Liddy was gaping at her and she stopped.“Hell, I upset you. Last thing I want to do.”
“No… My God, how did you survive? Is itcrazy to say your story helps?”
Kerri gestured; smiled. “Not at all. I’veoften thought people going through misery and seeing shrinks should just gettogether in the shrinks’ waiting rooms and trade stories. It would help more.”
“Yes, because you don’t feel soalone.” Liddy thought, and her brow furrowed. “So…what happened after that? Yousaid you went months…”
Kerri glanced up to the mournful facebegging for help; pressed her lips tight for a moment.
“Nightmares so vivid I’d wake up screaming andscrabbling to wipe the creep’s brains off my neck, or gasping for breathbecause his knee was still pressing my chest. That was the first time I’d actuallyseen someone die. In homicide, you arrive after they’ve been killed,they’re just…bodies lying there, no threat to anyone, surrounded by other copswho got there first, they’re all neatly cordoned off by our yellow crime scenetape - but that night…he just jumped out at me.” Kerri shook her head slowly.“It didn’t help that I’d just had a miscarriage and was going through a divorceat
