Kiss the Girls Page 0,48

Cross, an expert on human monsters from up North.

“Tell us what’s going on,” a woman reporter called out. “Give us a break, Nick. What’s the real story with Kate McTiernan?”

“If we’re lucky, maybe she can tell us.” Ruskin smiled at the reporter, but he kept on walking until we were safely inside the hospital.

Ruskin and I were far from first in line, but we were allowed to see the intern later that night. Kyle Craig pulled the necessary strings for me. A determination had been made that Katelya McTiernan wasn’t psychotic, but that she was suffering from posttraumatic stress syndrome. It seemed a reasonable diagnosis.

There was absolutely nothing that I could do that night. Anyway, I stayed after Nick Ruskin left, and I read all the medical charts, the nursing notes, and write-ups. I perused the local police reports describing how she had been found by two twelve-year-old boys who had skipped school to fish and smoke cigarettes down by the riverside.

I suspected I knew why Nick Ruskin had called me, too. Ruskin was smart. He understood that Kate McTiernan’s current state might involve me in the case as a psychologist, especially since I had dealt with this kind of poststress trauma before.

Katelya McTiernan. Survivor. But just barely. I stood beside her bed for a full thirty minutes that first night. Her IV was hooked up to a drip monitor. The bed’s siderails were up high and tight around her. There were already flowers in the room. I remembered a sad, powerful Sylvia Plath poem called “Tulips.” It was about Plath’s decidedly unsentimental reaction to flowers sent to her hospital room after a suicide attempt.

I tried to recall what Kate McTiernan had looked like before she got the black eyes. I’d seen photos. A lot of ugly swelling made her face look as if she were wearing goggles or a gas mask. There was more nasty swelling surrounding her jaw. According to the hospital write-up, she’d lost a tooth, too. Apparently, it had been knocked out at least two days before she was found in the river. He’d beaten her. Casanova. The self-proclaimed Lover.

I felt bad for the young intern. I wanted to tell her it would be all right somehow.

I rested my hand lightly on hers, and repeated the same sentences over and over. “You’re among friends now, Kate. You’re in a hospital in Chapel Hill. You’re safe now, Kate.”

I didn’t know if the badly injured woman could hear me, or even understand me. I just wanted to say something consoling to her before I left for the night.

And as I stood there watching the young woman, the image of Naomi’s face flashed before me. I couldn’t imagine her dead. Is Naomi all right, Kate McTiernan? Have you seen Naomi Cross? I wanted to ask, but she couldn’t have answered, anyway.

“You’re safe now, Kate. Sleep easy, sleep well. You’re safe now.”

Kate McTiernan couldn’t say a word about what had happened. She had lived through a horrifying nightmare that was worse than anything I could imagine.

She had seen Casanova, and he had left her speechless.

Chapter 47

TICK-COCK.

A young lawyer named Chris Chapin had brought home a bottle of Chardonnay de Beaulieu, and he and his fiancée, Anna Miller, were drinking the California wine in bed. It was finally the weekend. Life was good again for Chris and Anna.

“Thank God this godawful workweek is over,” sandy-haired twenty-four-year-old Chris exclaimed. He was an associate at a prestigious law office in Raleigh. Not exactly Mitch McDeere in The Firm—no German-made convertible to sign on—but a good start on his lawyering career.

“Unfortunately, I have a paper on contracts due Monday.” Anna grimaced. She was in her third year of law school. “Plus, it’s for the sadist Stacklum.”

“Not tonight, Anna Banana. Screw Stacklum. Better still, screw me.”

“Thank you for bringing home the vino.” Anna finally smiled. Her white teeth were dazzling.

Chris and Anna were good for each other. Everyone said so, all their lawyer pals. They complemented each other, had pretty much the same worldview, and, most of all, were smart enough not to try to change each other. Chris was obsessive about his job. Okay, fine. Anna needed to go antiquing at least twice a month. She spent her own money as if there were no tomorrow. That was okay, too.

“I think this wine needs to breathe a little while longer,” Anna said with an impish grin. “Uhm, while we’re waiting.” She slipped down the straps of a white lace demibra. She’d purchased the bra