“You don’t think so? That sounds like you do remember something. What is it?”
“I have this odd memory in my head. It’s a bridge. It’s nowhere I’ve ever been, but I remember it. I feel it. I’m in the middle of this awful gorge, and I can barely hold on. I would do anything to make it go away. I would die to make it stop.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“This is what he does, Lucy,” Frost murmured. “He plays on your fears. He exploits the things that terrify you. Just tell yourself that it wasn’t real. It was an illusion.”
“How can I remember something that wasn’t real?” Lucy asked. “Because it feels like it actually happened. It’s in my head. If you asked me to swear on the Bible, I’d tell you that I’ve been on that bridge.”
“You can’t trust your memory,” Frost said. “Memories lie. Even the good ones don’t always tell the truth.”
“I just want this to be over.”
“Soon. It will be over soon.”
She reached her arms out to embrace him, but at that moment, he heard his phone ringing in his pocket. He checked his caller ID and saw Francesca Stein’s name. He glanced at Lucy, who gave him a broken smile and waved him away. He stood up and answered the call. “Dr. Stein?”
“Hello, Inspector.”
The cool maturity in the psychiatrist’s voice was such a contrast to the youth and innocence of Lucy Hagen. They were two very different women. He also noticed something strange. Lucy clapped her hands over her ears to block out the sound of Dr. Stein’s voice through his phone.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked Frankie. “Are you okay? You had me worried last night.”
“I’m fine, but I need to see you,” she replied. “The patient I’ve been protecting is a man named Todd Ferris. We need to find him right away.”
39
“That’s Darren Newman’s house,” Frankie told Frost.
The detective put down his binoculars, which were trained on a Victorian house on Oak Street, opposite the narrow strip of Panhandle Park. The house looked like one of the painted ladies snipped out of a postcard of Alamo Square. It was narrow, with a paisley design on its green-and-lilac trim and red steps leading up to the door. The roof featured a single gable with a bay window in the middle.
The park’s century-old eucalyptus trees towered over their heads and scattered dagger-shaped leaves across the green grass. It was early evening, and the dark clouds had turned to mist, making their faces damp. More rain was coming.
“Newman’s at home,” Frost said. “I can see him inside.”
“I haven’t seen Todd, but I’m sure he’s going to show up here sooner or later.”
“And he said he would kill Newman?” Frost asked.
“He did. That’s the only reason I can tell you about any of this, Inspector. Todd is on the brink. I don’t know what he’ll do. Although honestly, I’m more worried that Darren will do something to him when he realizes that Todd has figured out what’s going on.”
Moisture from the drizzle gave a wet shine to Frost’s hair and beard. He shifted the binoculars to the parked cars on Oak Street. He panned along the sidewalk and the park’s dense trees, but the spitting rain had driven everyone away. They were alone.
“No one else is watching the house,” he said.
“I saw Todd’s face. He was serious. He’ll be here.”
They waited silently. Traffic came and went behind them, kicking up spray. Frankie kept her eyes on the old Victorian, but in the wet and cold, her mind drifted to the cliffs of Point Reyes. When she thought about that last weekend with her father, she could see him clearly now, broken body below her on the rocks. Face looking up at her. Blood.
She could hear her own voice, too. “Stop!”
But nothing else. Her memory was a blank space.
She found herself resenting what Jason had done, even if she’d asked him to do it. She’d been there to witness her father’s last moments, and now that walk on the trail had been stripped from her brain.
This is what you do to everyone else, her mind whispered.
She’d never understood what her patients experienced when they lay on her chaise and stared at the images she’d made for them and responded to her subliminal suggestions. She’d never known what it felt like, afterward, to have part of your past stolen away. This was her chance to look through the other end of the microscope. She didn’t like what she saw.
“Are you okay?”
She realized Frost was staring at her, his forehead wrinkled with concern.
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m not going to have another seizure, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“You looked far away,” Frost said, “and not in a happy place.”
Frankie shivered in the rain. “I’m questioning things. Some days I wonder if I’ve done more harm than good in my life.”
Frost’s eyes were curious, but he didn’t push her for details. She was grateful for that. He went back to his binoculars.
“Newman’s getting a call,” he told her. And then a minute later, “Come on, he’s on the move.”
Frost led her across the wet grass back to his Suburban, which was parked on Fell Street. Across the park, Frankie could see the door sliding up on the garage of Darren’s Victorian house. His red Lexus inched down the driveway, and when the traffic was clear, he backed onto Oak Street. The one-way street headed east, away from them, and Darren made an immediate right. His car disappeared.
Frost accelerated toward the point of the Panhandle and cruised through the yellow light into a left turn. Sutro Tower loomed on the hillside ahead of them. He sped to the next block and did another left to lay chase, but almost immediately, he hissed, “Get down!”
Darren’s Lexus sped toward them, no more than half a block away. Frankie slid as far as she could below the dash, and Frost dropped his visor to block his face. The two vehicles whipped by each other in opposite directions. Frost eyed his mirror, and Frankie took a quick look backward over the seat. She saw the Lexus make a right turn. Frost did a U-turn and followed.
They spotted Darren’s Lexus three cars ahead of them.
“He’s heading into Golden Gate Park,” Frost said.
They pursued Darren down a boulevard lined with trees and wide lawns on the north side of the park. A handful of bicyclists and joggers braved the rain on the trails beside them. The sky felt low, painted in angry charcoal. On their right, they passed the Conservatory of Flowers, surrounded by palm trees and gardens. Farther on, they saw the tower of the de Young museum.
Traffic thinned. The Lexus turned onto a small road leading deep into the center of the park, and Frost lingered to give the other vehicle space, then turned behind him. Dense trees soon enveloped them on both sides.
“He’s heading for Stow Lake,” Frost said. “Maybe he’s looking for the White Lady.”
“Ghost stories, Inspector? From you?”
“At night, the lake trail can make you believe almost anything,” Frost said. “I’ve been there.”
Ahead of them, the road split. Darren followed the lake’s northeastern border. It was as if they’d left the city completely behind them. Under the trees and the gray sky, the evening felt like night. Emerald water opened up on their right. The forested slope of Strawberry Hill rose from the middle of the lake. It was a steep climb to the top, with sweeping views of the city and a peek-a-boo glimpse of the spires of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Darren’s Lexus disappeared, but he couldn’t go far on the one-way street. Frost inched along the lake road in his wake. They followed a horseshoe bend to the southern shore, where the shoulder sloped upward above them, and the water disappeared through a mass of heavy brush. Gnarled trees lined the shoulders, deepening the darkness with their tall crowns.