“Fine,” he said, breaking free of her and reaching for the car door. “Let’s go.”
Kilgore had more to say to him, but Paul wasn’t even listening. He had a plan now, and he just wanted to get to it.
Twenty-Nine
When Paul and Charlotte got home—they first had to go over to Constance Drive to fetch Paul’s car—she found the latest note sitting in the Underwood: Blood was everywhere. What makes someone do something so horrible?
“Paul?” she said. “What’s this? You didn’t tell me about this. What’s going on? Why did you attack that man?”
“I have to go out,” he said.
“Paul, we just got home. For Christ’s sake, tell me what’s going on?”
“I have things to do.”
_________________
“IS HAROLD FOSTER IN?” PAUL ASKED AT THE MILFORD SAVINGS & LOAN customer service desk.
“Do you have an appointment?” the woman behind the desk asked, flashing him a Polident smile.
“No,” he said.
“Um, would you like to make one?”
“If he’s here now, I would like to see him.”
The woman’s smile faded. “Let me check. What’s the name?”
“Paul Davis.”
“And what’s it concerning?”
“It’s a personal matter,” he said.
“Oh.” She picked up the phone and turned away so that Paul could not hear her discussion. After fifteen seconds, she replaced the receiver and said, “Have a seat and Mr. Foster will be with you shortly.”
Shortly turned out to be five minutes. Finally, a short, balding man in a dark blue suit appeared.
“Mr. Davis?” He wore a quizzical look.
Paul stood. “Yes.”
“Come on in.”
He led Paul down a carpeted hallway to an office about ten feet square. The wall that faced the hall was a sheet of glass. Foster went behind his desk and sat while Paul took a chair opposite him.
The man’s desk was stacked with file folders. “Excuse all the mess. So much paperwork.” He grinned. “Everything has to be in writing, I always say.”
“Of course.”
“How may I help you? You weren’t very forthcoming with our receptionist, but I understand financial matters are very personal. Whether you’ve got a million to invest, or you owe the same to the credit card companies”—he grinned—“these are all things that aren’t anyone else’s business.”
“It’s not that kind of thing,” Paul said.
“What could it be, then?”
“I teach at West Haven College. Well, not at the moment. But I’ll be going back in the fall.”
The three words prompted an almost instantly darker look from Foster. “Oh?” He studied Paul a moment longer. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Paul Davis.”
Foster leaned back in his chair. “My God, you were . . . you were there.”
Paul nodded. “I was.”
“He tried to kill you.”
“Yes.”
“If you hadn’t stopped . . . the police wouldn’t have found him.” He let out a long breath. “And then we might never have found out what happened to them. To Jill, and Catherine.”
“I’m very sorry about your wife. I knew Jill, of course. Not well, but I ran into her occasionally at West Haven. The one I knew much better, or at least thought that I knew, was Ken—”
Foster held up a hand. “Stop right there.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Don’t even say his name,” he said, his voice bordering on threatening. “Do not say that man’s name in my presence. Never.”
Paul nodded. “I understand.”
Foster calmed himself. “Well, what is it you want?”
“I . . . I hardly know how to begin this, but I want to ask you some questions, about Jill, and what happened.”
“Why?”
He couldn’t bring up the typewriter, but he could tell this man about how he was attempting to deal with his post-traumatic stress.
“I’m . . . writing something. I’m writing about what I went through, about my recovery.”
“A book?”
“I don’t even know yet. The immediate goal is to get it all out, to face what happened to me. Maybe, at some later date, it’ll be a book, or a magazine piece. I don’t know what shape it’s going to take.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, well, anyway, that’s why I’m here. To ask you—”
The hand went up again. “Enough,” he said.
“I just wanted to—”
“Stop. I’m sorry for what happened to you, Mr. Davis. And I suppose I owe you some thanks. You probably, inadvertently of course, helped bring . . . that man to justice by coming upon him when you did. But I don’t want to talk about this. Not with you, not with anyone else. I’ve no doubt these last eight months have been hell for you. Well, they’ve been hell for me, too. And your way to deal with it may be to turn it into some creative writing exercise, but I have no interest in baring my soul to you or answering your prurient questions about my wife.”
“Prurient? Who said anything—”
Foster pointed to the door.
“Get out or I’ll call security.”
Paul nodded, stood, and left. Foster trailed him, a good five paces behind, until Paul had left the building.
Thirty
Anna White heard the doorbell ring.
It was the front door this time, not her office door. It was after five, and her last appointment had just left. She met weekly with an obsessive-compulsive man who associated leftward movements with evil. When driving, he would go around a block, making three right turns, so as not to make a left. He tried to use his left hand so little that muscle tone in that arm had degenerated. If he meant to walk left, he would rotate his body three-quarters of a turn, then head off in the direction he had to go. It was all rooted in the Latin word sinister, which means “to the left” or “left-handed.” Not surprisingly, his politics were right-wing.
Anna was making very little progress with him. She hoped that if Gavin Hitchens had actually managed to download many of her files, that he didn’t get hold of that one. A psychopath like Hitchens would have far too much fun with him.
She was about to make some postsession notes when she heard the doorbell. She hurried through the house, wanting to get to the door before her father, should he choose to come downstairs to answer it. But a glance through a window revealed that he was outside, chipping away at the lawn with a nine-iron.
Anna opened the door to a woman she did not recognize.
“Hello?”
“Paul’s gone over the edge,” she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m Charlotte. Charlotte Davis? Paul’s wife?”
“Yes, okay. What’s happened?”
“May I come in?”
Anna opened the door wide to admit her.
“They arrested him,” Charlotte said.
“They what? Who? The police?”
“He attacked some man.”
“What man?”
“Someone named Hitchens.”
Anna’s face fell. “Oh my God no.”
“What?”
“I shouldn’t have—I wanted to warn him but I never thought—”
“Warn Paul about what?”
“Please, tell me what happened.”
Charlotte told Anna what she’d been able to learn from Paul and the police. “He has this crazy idea this total stranger got into our house. Or at least, he did, until he got some call from you.”
“I’d found Paul’s keys, in my office. He must have thought Hitchens had them.”
Charlotte wiped a tear from her cheek. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Lately, Paul’s been so . . . I was going to try and make an appointment with you anyway, to talk about him. But then, when this happened . . .”
“I can’t discuss my patients,” Anna explained. “Not even with their spouses.”
Charlotte nodded quickly. “Of course, I understand that. But I have to tell you what’s been going on.”
“I really don’t know that—”
“Please. I thought Paul was getting better, but these last few days, he’s getting worse. He’s losing it.”
Anna hesitated, then said, “Go on.”
“He’s hearing things in the middle of the night. Things that I’m not hearing. Like someone tapping away on an old typewriter I bought him. And now he’s finding”—she put air quotes around the word—“messages in the typewriter he thinks are coming from these two women Kenneth Hoffman murdered. And he’s already told you about the nightmares, right?”